


Parnassus on Lawrence Street

by Whyistheskyblue



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Cafe, Gen, Gertrude's assistants debut as Martin's trivia team, Haunted Bookstore, Slow Build, peter is an ass, tw: abusive relationships, tw: infidelity, tw: minor character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:27:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 56,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22645654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whyistheskyblue/pseuds/Whyistheskyblue
Summary: Following the tragic death of Gertrude Robinson, Jonathan Sims finds himself the new owner of her bookstore, Parnassus. Between the complete mess of the shelves, the strange owner of the building, and the stoner who acts as his sole employee, getting the store into operating condition is a daunting task.As things begin to go bump in the night, Jon isn't sure if this arrangement is as fortunate for all involved as Jonah, his landlord, says it is.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Peter Lukas/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 139
Kudos: 315





	1. Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> A tentative foray back into writing. Be gentle.

Jonathan will never know why Gertrude Robinson had bequeathed the bookshop to him shortly before her untimely passing. They had known each other as acquaintances do - she a collector of rare books with a library that masqueraded as a store, and he a purveyor of rare and unusual knowledge. They sold to each other often enough to be on first name terms; often enough that he had privately considered her collection to be at least in part his own.

And now it appeared that the whole thing was to belong to him - from the dusty little flat that was above the retail space to the basement full of - were those boxes of loose leaf tea?

“What on earth?” Jon muses aloud, using the flashlight from his phone to examine the boxes. _Teapigs Biodegradable Tea Temples._ Jon picks one up and gives it a slight shake. If the soft rustling is to be trusted, the box was in fact full of tea. A glance around reveals that the basement is a bit different since the last time Gertrude had hauled him down to go through an ancient crate of books. A strip of electrical tape divides the room in two, and the half that Jon currently is standing in seems to be stacked high with boxes of tea, bags of coffee, and a crate of shattered china cups. He nudges the crate curiously with his foot and is rewarded only with the gentle clinking of broken glass.

“Hello?” The light flickers on overhead. Well, half the lights do - the lights on the side that is full of book crates remain dark. The man at the top of the stairs peers down at him curiously, tension evaporating from his shoulders. “Oh - you must be the new renter! Mr. Magnus said you’d be by soon.”

The man thumps down the stairs, nearly tripping over himself in his excitement to greet him. Jon is reminded of an eager puppy, bright eyes and excited energy. Blonde curls slip into his eyes, and brushed out of the way by an impatient hand. “M’name is Martin, I run the cafe. I’m sure Mr. Magnus has told you about all that?”

“Cafe?” There hadn’t been a tea room the last time Jon was here, but that had been a few years ago. “I’m afraid that Jonah has been very close lipped since dropping off the keys with me.” He shifts to better size up this stranger, who throws a hand in front of his eyes when the light from Jon’s phone flashlight strikes his face. Jon switches it off. The man, Martin, seems overwhelmingly soft. Soft sweater, soft body, his demeanor and voice are puddled around the edges. He appears to be a man who is used to being perceived as a threat because of size alone, and he does his best to avoid furthering the perception. “Perhaps we can discuss this later, I’ve had a very long day.” He turns away, a chill snaking its way up the sleeve of the green sweater he was wearing.

“Ah - ah- absolutely!” Martin takes a few abortive steps after him, feet kicking up the smell of dust. “You should stop by for a cup in the morning, we can talk about the agreement that Ms. Robinson and I had.”

Jon pauses at the top of his staircase, considering this. He hadn’t yet unpacked any of the boxes in his new apartment, including the one that contained the pantry staples. “I’ll see you in the morning, Martin.”

* * *

Gertrude Robinson’s flat felt like an extension of the bookstore down below. Dark wooden shelving hemmed the rooms, overflowing with a hodgepodge of books. Jon tips one off the shelf idly - a worn out copy of _Encyclopedia Brown Takes the Case_. It appeared to be shelved next to a leather bound edition of Kant’s _Metaphysics of Morals_. It would take weeks, if not months, to sort through these shelves alone and weed out what needed to be shipped off to a charity shop and categorize what would be worth selling. He hopes, desperately, that the shelves below have not become similarly disorganized. Gertrude had never maintained the neatest shop, but outright disorder had never ruled here before.

A few boxes of chotchkies rest on the living room table, waiting to be unpacked. On top is a brand new MacBook - a gift from Peter when he mentioned that he wanted to finish his masters. _“You need proper supplies to take any journey.”_ The Peter in his memory tells him, as though it was perfectly reasonable to spend thousands of dollars on whatever it was that he liked to fancy the two of them to be. More than arm candy, less than exclusive.

“A man has needs, Jon.” Jonathan mutters under his breath, putting aside the memory of a picture of Peter and a very beautiful young woman splashed across The Inquirer. That had been one of their nastier fights, with Peter reminding Jon that they had never established themselves as exclusive. Reminding Jon that a Lukas never really lived without a public presence, none of the moneyed elite did. Reminding Jon that if he intended to become a Lukas himself one day that he would need to be prepared to face that reality, no matter how painfully private Jon liked to imagine himself to be.

Funny how in one breath he could remind Jon that they weren’t a couple, and in the next he could talk about marriage.

The kitchen has beautiful granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. The windows are wide, and Jon can imagine them with flower boxes full of basil and rosemary and mint. Jonah, the owner of the building, had explained that he had gutted and redone to kitchen in the two weeks since Gertrude’s unfortunate death. The bathroom as well, as the ancient plumbing was posing a risk to the books downstairs.

 _“And we really can’t have that, can we Mr. Sims?”_ Jonah stands aside as Jon shuts the bathroom door, hiding the white subway tiles and black titanium fixtures.

 _“Call me Jon.”_ His voice is clipped, doing his best to hide how overwhelmed he is by the sudden news of Gertrude’s death and his own good fortune.

_“I hope you’ll call me Jonah.”_

The bedroom is packed with boxes, Jon’s meagre possessions and crates of books stacked haphazardly on top of each other. The bed is musty, and when he turns the sheets down he swears he sees a lone spider skitter away. A panicked search of the sheets results in nothing besides the bed having to be remade. Sleep, restless as it is to slip away when one is in a strange an unfamiliar place, comes quickly.

* * *

Jon does not dream that night. He knows, intellectually, that he must have had some sort of dream. Everything dreams when it sleeps. But he wakes feeling refreshed in a way he does not tend to feel when sleeping alone, and with no recollection of any dreams he had in the night. The clock above the door reads 6:07, but cross referencing his phone reveals that the clock had missed the message about daylight savings time and it was actually just past seven. Surely that was early enough for the tea room to be open?

It was not, and a bleary eyed Martin is tinkering behind the counter with some alien piece of machinery when Jon enters through the empty arch that connects the bookstore and the café.

The last time Jon was in the bookstore, this area had been full of desks and oversized chairs and mirrors that were well positioned to catch what little light made its way down to street level. The chairs have been reorganized into small groupings, and the large desks have been removed entirely for smaller tables made of glass and chrome. The large built in bookshelf on the back wall had been repurposed into space for storing and displaying coffee and tea paraphernalia. A marble counter ran around it, adorned by an espresso machine, a few electric kettles, and whatever contraption that Martin is elbows deep in configuring.

“Uh, we’re closed.” A new voice pipes up when Jon crosses the room to examine one of the new tables. He turns, blinking blearily, just as Martin manages to flip on whatever contraption he’s working on. It roars to life for exactly 5.3 seconds before shutting abruptly off. The smell of fresh ground coffee fills the air.

“I got the, ah, grinder dialed in.” Martin squeaks. An actual, honest to god, squeak. Jon can’t help but to raise one cool and calculating eyebrow at that. “So the espresso should taste right today. It sorta, uh, struggles whenever we have rain coming in.”

“How did you even get in here?” The other man behind the counter leans forward, hunched protectively over piles of cash and an open register drawer. He’s attractive, in the way that teenage heartthrobs grow up to be attractive.

“This is Jon.” Martin rushes to explain. “He’s taking over next door following Gertrude’s untimely passing.” Martin is moving behind the counter, hooking something up to the espresso machine and pouring something into a small pitcher. He continues to talk while doing it, as though the actions were second nature to him. “Apparently Jon was one of Gertrude’s contacts in the rare book industry. Mr. Magnus told me that he traveled all over tracking down exotic printings and first editions and things.”

“That’s a kind exaggeration.” Jon bites out. “I rarely left England in my travels, most of my job was sitting at a computer or going to estate sales.” There had been a few “rare book vacations” once Peter had entered his life, but never too far from home or his day job at Oxford. He’s crossed to the marble counter, standing far enough away that the employee counting money wouldn’t feel as though Jon were about to jump the counter and make off with the bank.  


Martin slides a cup across the counter. It’s a latte, with a lopsided heart adorning the top. The employee looks over and snorts, before returning his attention to the drawer.

“The, um, first pour of the day is supposed to be one of the best.” A pause. “Not that my latte art has ever been any good, never really graduated past hearts which sort of makes everyone think that I’m flirting with them.”

Jon picks up the mug and eyes it suspiciously. “Thanks.” The word is crip and cool.

“Not that I’m flirting with you! I just, you seemed like you needed - and not that you’re not worth flirting with, obviously. But I’m not. Flirting, that is.”

“Hey boss?”

“Yes, Tim?”

“Do yourself a favor and quit while you’re ahead.” Tim doesn’t even look up from whatever opening task he’s doing - something with lots of little bags and canisters of loose leaf tea. Martin looks completely and utterly defeated.

“Can I bring the cup back later?” Jon asks. “I wanted to go take a poke around the bookshop, see what sort of condition it’s in.”

“Sure.” Tim answers, finally looking up from his task. “If you break it you can chuck it in the basement bin. It happens pretty regularly.” Martin appears to be doing his best to hide his considerable bulk behind the espresso machine, filling quart containers with unground coffee beans and refusing to look up.

“Thanks.” Jon can hear the two of them bickering in whispers as he disappears into the bookshop. Something about strangers and new friends and unrequited Shut Up Tim, in hushed and hurried voices.

The bookshop is everything Jon feared it would be. Literature is crammed anywhere it will fit, with little rhyme or reason to the shelves. There’s an entire unit in the back that is flipped around to show only the pages - yellows and whites running together as old hardcovers and new paperbacks jostle with each other. There are books piled to form end tables, there are magazines rolled and shoved into hand baskets beneath chairs. The shelves (and there are far more shelves than there where the last time Jon was here) twist and turn on themselves, sometimes dead ending deep within the stacks.

All in all, it gave the overwhelming impression that Gertrude had stopped attempting to pretend that the store was anything besides her personal collection. She had been an eccentric woman, and Jon desperately hopes that somewhere there is some sort of key to how the shelves are organized.

His answer comes in the form of a twenty two year old man, smelling faintly of weed, who lets himself in the front door at 9:10 am. Ten minutes after open. He doesn’t seem to notice that Jon had already unlocked the door and thrown open the blinds, and instead shuffles over to the ancient cash drawer, flicks it open as though to ensure that the money was all there, closes it again, and settles onto the stool behind the counter. His eyes are half closed, and he is bopping his head along to whatever music is playing in his ear buds.

Jon was so deep in a bookshelf he wouldn’t have noticed the stranger had it not been for the ringing of the bell above the door when it opened. The slight man began to wind his way out from the shelves, wiping dust from the sleeves of his sweater and fully prepared to put forward what little patience and customer service experience that he had. Instead he stops, gaping, at the remarkably well dressed stranger who was sitting behind his counter.

“Who are you?” Jon demands, just as the stranger begins the same line. They both stop, Jon scowling and the stranger grinning.

“You must be the new owner. Mr. Magnus told me that you would be by.” The stranger nods sagely, taking a moment to look Jon over. “I think I was expecting someone taller. More businessman, less disgruntled librarian.”

Jon takes a breath. Counts backwards from ten. “I’m sorry to disappoint you. Would you mind telling me who you are?” He cracks on the last three words, tension drawing his voice high and tight.

“I’m Elias. I cover the random shifts that Gertrude couldn’t be here for.” He offers an ink stained hand, and several facts click rapidly into place. Elias quite obviously fancied himself a writer of some sort. There was a small notebook in his breast pocket and an obscenely expensive pen tucked behind his ear. His eyes were bloodshot, his pupils slightly blown. His clothes were expensive and not particularly well cared for. Ink dotted the cream sleeves of his button down, and his pants had an unidentifiable stain on the left knee.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Elias. I would love to have a chat about the current state of the book shop with you.” Jon pushes aside his assumptions and smiles thinly, his patience already nearly gone. Elias, unfamiliar or unconcerned about Jon’s sharp tongue, smiles back.

* * *

“Elias said the new owner ripped him a new asshole when they met.” A young woman is sitting on a stool that has been dragged up to the marble counter. Her hair is neatly braided and wound on top of her head, a red bandana keeping it neatly in place. The cup in her hands isn’t one of the many and eclectic floral teacups, but rather a chipped mug with a bright green dinosaur and the slogan “Don’t be a Cuntasaurous.” 

Tim leans against the other side of the counter, his forearms supporting his weight. “Yeah, but haven’t you wanted to rip Elias a new one before? He’s almost as bad as Not-Sasha.” His face contorts. “And we don’t even technically work with him. Just sort of adjacent to him.” 

“You shouldn’t be mean to her.” The woman frowns. “It’s not her fault that Martin hired someone with the same name as me.” The disdain that Tim carried for Not-Sasha had always troubled Sasha. Not-Sasha was a sweet girl - hard working and reliable. The Muse had gone through several different employees before one had finally stuck. Just because her name was also Sasha didn’t make her less worthy. 

“Even Martin called her that the other day!” Tim’s defence is half hearted as he rolls his shoulders, pushing off the counter to pace like a billiard ball rocketing between pockets. She notices how his shoulders are drawn near to his ears; how he keeps wiping his clean and dry hands on his denim apron. “What had him so upset anyways?” 

“Seemed like a bit of everything.” Sasha’s voice is languid, loose where Tim is tight. “Apparently what finally did it was that Gertrude never managed to get a POS system to work in there. They still have to write down card information and process it at the end of the day. Elias said he lost it, started raging about how this isn’t the nineties and he won’t be running a store that can’t process credit cards.” 

“I thought that Gertrude had tried most POS’s.” Tim offers. Sasha knows that Tim knows that Gertrude had tried every sales system under the sun. They all shorted out or refused to connect to wifi or (on one particularly memorable occasion) exploded within a few days of being installed. So Elias had been left with an ancient cash drawer and a little box of credit card receipts. 

Despite the fact it was past two, the gate that connected the cafe to the bookstore was drawn and locked. A painting tarp had been firmly tacked into place on the bookstore side, opaque enough that it was impossible to tell if the lights were on next door or not. When Tim had come in to relieve Sasha at noon, the sign in the bookshop window had been flipped to “closed” and the blackout shades in the windows had been drawn tight. It gave the impression of a place that was closed for renovations, but instead of a cacophony of power tools and workmen there was the occasional sound of a single set of feet and indistinct muttering. Shortly after one there had been a crash and a string of muted curses. There had been no disturbances since then. 

“You think he’s going to just put the whole thing up for sale?” Tim asks after a long pause, wiping his hands off again. 

“Is that what has you so worried?” Sasha raises an incredulous eyebrow. It had never occurred to her that new management might not be happy with how their little family had settled in. There was no real reason for The Muse to be closed. As far as any of them knew it was the only thing that was paying the rent on the building. The funds were certainly not coming from the one book sale a week that Gertrude had been averaging. 

“He could decide he doesn’t like having the cafe attached! Martin made him seem like he was some big collector of books who had known Gertrude for ages. He might want to go back to how things used to be.” Tim’s hands gesture in small, tight circles. Sasha finds herself watching them as he paces behind the bar. 

“I think you’re worried about some far off possibility. Besides, Mr. Magnus was in here this morning talking about how perfect he thinks Mr. Sims will be for the store. Jonah said he really thought Mr. Sims was going to breath fresh life into the place.” The jovial man who collected the rent checks came in once a week or so to check in on how his “favorite little business venture” was shaping up. His visits were invariable. He came in shortly after open, talked with Martin (if he was in that day), or Tim or Sasha (if he wasn’t). Shortly after the rush began he would leave, always managing to slip a small letter and a ten into the tip jar without any of them noticing. 

“Jonah was here?” Tim stops his pacing, distracted. “Did you finally convince him to try anything?” 

Sasha shakes her head. “Said he had eaten on his way in this morning." 

“He says that every time he comes through.” 

“He’s a bit of an odd one, isn’t he?” Sasha says by way of agreeing as she sets the mug on the counter. “I have to make it to class. I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“It’s Not-Sasha tomorrow. I’ve got that interview.” Tim is doing his best to banish the unease he feels whenever the owner of the building is mentioned. “It’s the second round.” 

“Text me about it. We’ll grab drinks after.” Sasha smiles and winks. “And try to relax. Psyching yourself out isn’t going to help at all.” She stretches, loose muscles coiling as she grabs the duffle bag at her feet. She’s out the door before Tim can respond. He watches her pause next to the window to pop in her headphones before she disappears into the crowd.


	2. Chapter 2

Jonah has no difficulty navigating Gertrude’s maze of shelving. The books are stacked. Sometimes two or three deep, with no rhyme or reason. The shelves are tight, claustrophobic. They press on whoever wanders into them warning them to  _ turn back now, lest you are swallowed whole and spat back teeth and bones _ . The entire thing was, in his opinion, very melodramatic. But he had many years of experience tracking down errant shop keepers among the shelves, and thus has little difficulty finding the little corner that Jon as tucked himself into. 

“Jonathan!” Jonah’s voice is light, delighted. “I was just coming by to pick up the lease paperwork from you.” The corner that the two are tucked into lies near the heart of the bookstore, well away from any light coming in through the windows. The old, iridescent lights cast dancing shadows across both of their faces. 

“Jonah, I didn’t hear you come in.” Jon looks up from the box he’s packing, elbows deep in a mixture of penny dreadfuls and cowboy novels. Behind the layer of cheap paperbacks sat a set of encyclopedias and world history books, as though they had been shelved here and someone had - years later - hidden them behind a layer of trash. On a more pressing note, Jonathan hadn’t heard the chime of the bell above the door, and while it made sense that the owner of the building would have a key, he hadn’t thought himself so deep in the stacks that he might miss the ring. 

“I trust the paperwork was straightforward to you?” Jonah asks. He gives off the air of someone who is slouching comfortably against the shelf, without actually compromising his ramrod straight posture. 

“It all seemed very fair.” Jonathan had no experience with retail leases, and rather than admit defeat and turn to a lawyer he had instead spent the better part of the last few evenings going over rental laws. The cost of the space, he had learned, was priced by the square foot and then divided up over twelve months. He had also learned that his rent was shockingly low for the neighborhood and the amount of free space that was gained from twenty foot ceilings and the balcony that spanned two of the walls was not factored into this price. 

The upstairs flat was disgustingly cheap at a thousand a month and bundled with the retail lease. He then sublet the cafe space to Mr. Martin Blackwood for two thousand, five hundred a month. It left him on the hook for six thousand, one hundred and fifty. It was a hundred a square foot, and about half the going rate of the businesses immediately around them in this trendy strip of Chelsea. 

“I haven’t changed it since Gertrude took over the lease back in the seventies. She told me I was unfairly overcharging her.” Jonah is earnest. “I didn’t want our relationship to get off to a similarly poor start, so I thought I would just keep it as it was since Gertude had stopped complaining in recent years.” 

“Was there a bookstore here before Gertrude?” Jon asks. This is news to him, but he hadn’t known Gertrude until he started working on his undergraduate thesis in 2007. At that point the space had been well and truly hers, thirty years removed from any other owner. 

“There’s been a bookstore here for a few hundred years. My family used to mind it, but my father found he was more of the real estate and business development sort. He hired someone to start overseeing it in the forties, and I took over his assets and properties shortly before Mrs. Robinson bought the bookstore from her predecessor.” Jonah’s smile is that of a man indulging a child and laying a secret bare. “I grew up in that upstairs apartment.” 

A long pause stretches between them as Joon tries to sort out a timeline in his head. Jonah has never struck him as particularly old. There is a timelessness in the way he dresses and carries himself; his accent and diction came across as well read but not particularly dated. His face is smooth, and his hair ambiguously salt and pepper. He does not come across as the little old man that the story he’s telling implies he should be. 

“Yoga.” Jonah offers with that same all knowing smile. “And a fair bit of hair dye.” 

“I didn’t mean -” Jon starts, having the good grace to flush. 

“I understand. The secret to a long and healthy life is physical activity and a stylist who can hide the sin of age.” Jonah’s eyes twinkle. “Be a dear and leave the lease on the register when you’re done with it. I’ll swing through tomorrow and pick it up.” 

“I can go grab it now.” Jon offers, finally standing. He hadn’t realized that he had spent this very brief exchange kneeling awkwardly before the other man. His cheeks begin to color again. Sticking his foot in his mouth without even saying anything was a special skill that had followed him since he was an overly inquisitive child. 

“I’m afraid I have another appointment to keep. I’ll pick it up later. Have a pleasant day, Jon.” Jonah gives one last patronly smile and rounds the corner. Jon strains his ears, but he never hears the bell above the shop door ring.

* * *

In the week before Pernasus opens its doors, Elias comes and goes from the Muse multiple times a day. He’s content to swap jabs with Tim, flirt with Sasha, and make a general nuisance of himself every time he’s on the premises. It’s Thursday when he comes in, grumbling about bosses who ditch work to get their dicks wet. 

Martin remembers a man in a recentish Mercedes, who had shown up earlier outside the bookstore. The mystery man had been attractive, in the way that all powerful, well groomed men who are greying at the temples are attractive. He had spoken with Jon, his posture coiled and snake-like, before Jon huffed and started loading boxes into the back seat of the gold car.

“Is Jon seeing him?” Martin asks, his hands stuttering as he tries to make Elias change. He’s loud enough that Sasha, cleaning the bar, winces. He’s probably loud enough for the entire south side of London to hear him. 

“I think he’s an ex.” Elias is nonchalant. He’s dense enough that it’s possible he hasn’t picked up on the painfully obvious crush that Martin has. In the very least, Martin hopes he hasn’t picked up on it, as it would be a very quick way for Jon to learn in a painfully awkward fashion. 

“That’s good.” There’s a long moment of Elias staring at him as though he has a second head before Martin realizes why that wasn’t the correct response. It’s not normal to respond to news of potentially tragic heartbreak with accolades. “That he came to help Jon out, I mean! And obviously that they seem to be on amicable terms.” 

“I suppose.” Elias lifts the tea bag from his to go mug, squeezing it delicately before tossing it in the trash and adding enough cream and honey that Martin’s teeth hurt just watching.

“You know, we can always make a milk steamer with honey. No need to defile good tea like that.” Martin says before his brain can catch up with his mouth. He pauses, mortified. “Unless you like it that way, of course. Nothing wrong with liking it light and sweet.” 

“I suppose.” Elias repeats, fitting the to go lid onto the paper cup. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah? If you see Jon can you let him know I took the spare keys so I can lock up?” Martin doesn’t tell Elias that there’s a slim chance that Jon will bother coming over to grace the cafe with his presence, but Elias has shrugged on his coat and is out the door before Martin can even make his goodbyes. 

“That was -” Sasha begins, leaning against the bar, her posture relaxed. 

“Impressively awful?” Martin cuts across whatever she had planned on saying, folding his arms over his chest. 

“I wouldn’t have put it that way. Awkward, definitely. Might have gone as far as to call it bumbling.” Sasha crosses the bar to give Martin’s bicep a sympathetic squeeze. “You’ve got it bad, huh?” 

“Those two words mean the same thing.” Martin looks around the empty shop before allowing his shoulders to slump. His stomach twists on itself as turns to lean against the counter, refusing to meet Sasha’s eyes. 

“You look like an excited puppy every time someone so much as mentions Jon’s name.” Sasha’s blunt, each word making the thing in Martin’s stomach wind tighter. “I’ve been thinking about swapping out your mug for one covered in little hearts.” Martin’s current mug, which sat with the ever growing collection of staff cups and mugs Sasha brought in for regulars that she was fond of, was a white number that read “I’m just going to sip my tea.” 

Martin gapes for a moment, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Sasha!” He finally squeaks out, his cheeks burning red. “That is - you know that Jon is a colleague! He’s our landlord!” 

“That’s a good reason to sleep with him, yeah? Maybe he’ll modify the sublet to read “will accept sexual favors instead of cash.” Sasha is grinning, leaning languidly against the counter. The thing in Martin’s stomach feels like a vise. His mother had said he jumped too quickly into things - that he felt too much too fast and wanted to act on it too soon. His mother, when she took his calls, reminded him that no one wanted to deal with his awkward fumbling and too intense passions. 

“I’m not talking about this with you. Go do something I pay you to do.” Martin picks a scone from the pastry case from the register and begins to pick at it, leaving little flecks of almond and rosemary on the counter. Normally Martin can stand light hearted teasing, his good nature capable of withstanding a little bit of workplace bullying. Something about this crush had worked its way under his skin. Martin knew he wasn’t tall, dark, and handsome like Jon’s ex. He didn’t have money to pour into rare books or traveling. The furthest he had gone in recent years was to Devon to visit his mother, when she would take his visits. Jon had shown little more than polite disinterest towards Martin the few times he had come into The Muse in the last week. 

When Martin had tried to make a joke about Jon never removing the tea bag while he was drinking, the other man had shown active disdain.  _ “A little bitterness has never hurt anyone. And I have too many other things to worry about to be concerned with oversteeped tea.”  _ Jon had not been back since that, probably preferring to make his tea where no one was commenting on it. 

“You know, I’ve got a show coming up soon. It’s a ballet thing in SoHo. I have some free tickets.” Sasha offers after a few minutes of tidying around the espresso machine, an olive branch. Martin turns, allowing his hurt to fade. 

“Maybe we can get the whole staff together for a night. Make an event of it.” Martin replies. The chime above the door rings, and the pair put on their best customer service smiles. The shift is long from over, and the after work rush should be coming any minute. 

* * *

“Thank you for helping me.” Jon says, his eyes glued to the road despite the fact that he’s in the passenger seat. Peter had been the only person he could think of who owned a car. Georgie had gotten rid of her when she moved to London years ago, and he wasn’t in frequent contact with many other people. 

“You can always ask me for help.” Peter’s voice is amused and aloof. His arm wraps around Jon’s shoulder, pulling the smaller man across the stick shift. 

“Two hands on the wheel, please.” Jon’s shoulders are tight. He’s doing his best to not lean away from Peter, to swallow his sharp tongue that wants to rip the other man to pieces. It wouldn’t work, anyways. Peter had never cared what Jon said to him. 

Peter retracts his arm, utterly unfazed. “Why are you getting rid of all of these books anyways? Isn’t a bookstore supposed to sell second hand books?” 

“I want to cater to a certain type of clientele. Children's books and YA literature from the eighties and nineties don’t fit what I have in mind.” They didn’t fit the type of store that Jon had known Gertrude to keep either, yet had been filed on the outer layer of the shelves as though hiding the more valuable books beneath them. “I was surprised, as Gertrude had previously kept her collection very well curated.” 

“I wonder what changed. She seemed like a formidable woman when we met after the Sweden trip.” Peter muses. Jon can tell he’s only half paying attention, the other half probably distracted by some shipping manifesto or work complication or his most recent floozy.  _ “The company doesn't run itself, Jon.” _ Peter would tell him every time he called the other man out on not being present. 

“She went senile, most likely. That’s what the shelves reminded me of, with the way that they twisted and turned on themselves.” The maze was difficult to navigate - dusty and unkept and unorganized. 

“Just seems a bit strange to me, that’s all.” Peter sneaks a glance at Jon. “You know, you never told me that the rare book trade was dangerous. This is the third old coot to drop dead in the last two years?” 

Jon sighs, still staring at the road. “It’s an - underappreciated trade with the current generation.” 

“The current generation! As though you’re eighty seven and likely to keel over at any minute yourself.” Peter continues to make needling quips as he drives, trying to sink his fingers into Jon and pull some type of reaction out of him. Jon doesn’t respond. Too familiar with the nettling to allow it to disrupt his stoicism. 

The drive settles into silence, traffic awful even at midday. Jon allows his gaze to shift outside, to the endless storefronts and office buildings. Every street is nearly exactly the same. Similar even to the one Pernasus occupies. 

“You know, you didn’t have to leave Oxford.” Peter’s voice cuts through the daze that Jon had settled into. 

“I wanted to.” Jon shrugs. He had needed to get away. Away from Peter and the three million dollar apartment. Away from Peter’s family with their hollow eyes and pressing expectation that he would quit his job and mind the house and fall into line. Away from their strangely friendless existence. People were temporary to Peter, used and put aside as the situation called for it. And Jon, well, Jon had never been skilled at social interactions. 

Once, when being unkind, Peter had told Jon that silent and surly was his “most becoming act.” They had been at a gala with the types of people who saw Jon’s cheap glasses and promptly allowed their gazes to slip past him. He blended into the background - the pretty thing Peter Lukas had brought this week and unworthy of their attention. Peter was displeased that Jon wasn’t making more of an effort to woo his business contacts, but would never allow that to actually show. Instead he was infuriatingly light hearted about the entire thing, letting the little jabs pick apart Jon’s facade until they were home and the entire thing came crashing down. He’d showered for over an hour, not even realizing the water had gone cold until Peter had come in and led him to bed, wrinkled and pink and crying. 

Jon had needed to get away from Oxford.The bookstore was an opportunity that he had jumped for - an apartment and a livelihood rolled into one. And really, it couldn’t be that hard to run a small business anyway. He had a masters degree. In history, but surely it was applicable enough. 

“We’re here.” Peter finally breaks the silence. “Skoob? The used book store that will sell the used books that you deem insufficient for your used book store.” 

“Yes, thank you.” Jon is out of the car almost as soon as it’s stopped, opening the back door and wrestling the first of the boxes out. They’re heavy, and no one had ever accused short, slight Jon of being a strong man. 

“Let me.” Peter is suddenly behind Jon, an arm wrapped around Jon’s waist as he maneuvers the smaller man out of the way. He’s strong, his time at sea lending him thick, corded muscle, and Jon feels insufficient. Again. 

“Peter, I can -” 

“Mr. Sims?” A young woman in glasses steps out the shop door, cutting off whatever sharp retort Jon was about to make. “You called yesterday to book an appointment?” He had, wanting to check that they would be interested in a few hundred books that he needed to offload from an estate. 

“I - yes.” He clears his throat and turns to help Peter, just to see that the other man was already done. “Ah, thank you, Peter.” 

“You could show your thanks by coming with me to dinner tonight.” The statement is half an order and half an expectation. As though Peter believed that with a favor he could reestablish their patterns and Jon would simply fall into line. 

“No thank you, Peter. I’m afraid I already have a commitment.” A lie, and Peter knew it. But the question was if he would call Jon out. It wouldn’t accomplish anything, but that doesn’t mean Peter wouldn’t do it just so he could watch Jon squirm. 

“I see.” He isn’t, and he instead steps back and away from Jon. His expression is every bit as easygoing as it was the moment before. “I trust you don’t need a ride home then?” 

“No, thank you.” Jon’s shoulders are tight again, and a strange look flicks across Peter’s face. If Jon didn’t know better he would think it was hurt. But he has never been able to hurt Peter. The other man had missed a dozen dinners without batting an eye. Jon turning him down once was hardly cause for him to feel betrayed. 

“Call me if you need anything.” Peter is nonchalant, any emotion Jon thought he might have seen there already gone. From behind Jon, the shop assistant with the thick rimmed glasses clears her throat. It slices through the tension like a knife, granting Jon permission to tear his eyes away. 

“If you’d like to follow me, I can take you to meet with one of our appraisers.” Behind him, Jon hears the car start, barely audible over the bustle of the street in the middle of the day. He doesn’t look back, and instead follows the girl up the ramp to the door she’s holding open. Only once the glass has swung shut does he sneak a peek over his shoulder, but Peter is already gone. 

* * *

On the fifth day the shelves are finally bare. Jon had originally hoped to sort the books as they packed them, but it had quickly become obvious that the task would be impossible to complete within the time frame. They would have to sort the thousands of books as they unpacked. Most of the tomes are unlabeled and unpriced. He’s learned from Elias that Gertrude’s method in the last few years had been to leave the price stickers off, and hope that people didn’t come in. 

“Prices?” Elias laughed, his eyes hazy after one of his frequent bathroom trips. “The only rule was to quote a price high enough that you thought they’d put the book back.” Once a collector named Gared had offered him three thousand pounds for a slim black book, its cover embossed in silver with a tree pattern. When the collector wouldn’t take no and Gertrude was called down, she went pale and snapped that the particular book was part of her private collection and was not meant to be on the floor. 

“Said something weird about telling his mother that she knew better than to send him here.” Elias grunts as he sets the final box at the top of the winding iron staircase that leads to the second level balcony. With the room empty, Jon can see the bones of the bookstore that Gertrude had once prided herself in minding. The shelving is a hodgepodge of woods and varnishes. They’re arranged to twist in on themselves, sometimes twisting into dead ends. But the floors are dark walnut, and in the back corner, closest to the windows that peeked into a neighbors garden, a seating area with two overstuffed armchairs and and thick (nappable) couch has been arranged. There are a few stiff wooden chairs scattered at other points, often nestled into the dead ends of the spirals. 

In the front of the store, near to the register, is the tarp that hides the entry to The Muse. The cafe had previously been a reading room, and Jon had written some of his thesis there while using Gertrude’s reference materials. The balcony that is now stacked high with boxes covers the back wall and the one opposite of The Muse. Along the back wall it’s roughly fifteen feet wide, a row of shelves separating the walkway from what had been turned into a small room with a large window and a sturdy wooden table. Here Gertrude had kept the rare books - the ones that could be priced into the thousands. The room had a gorgeous twenty foot ceiling between the ten feet of clearance required for the balcony, and the ten feet of clearance required for the main floor. On top of that was the flat that Jon had recently come to occupy with its ancient television and brand new kitchen. 

“Odd.” It’s the only word Jon can think of to describe her actions. “Why don’t you take tomorrow off, Elias? I’m going to have a company come in here and clean as it seems that Gertrude never expected you to do any dusting either.” 

“Am I going to be-” Elias starts, hesitation making his brow furrow. 

“We will discuss your new duties the next time you’re in.” Jon quickly answers. He hasn’t given much thought to what a sales associate is expected to do, nor does he know what he can legally expect of one. 

“Am I going to get -” 

“We will discuss your compensation at the same time.” Jon snaps. He hasn’t thought about this yet, and the irritation at his lack of knowledge is seeping into his voice. “Why don’t you go ahead and clock out? I think we’re done for the day.” 

“Oh, I’ve never clocked in.” Elias looks at Jon with bemusement. “Gertrude just paid me for my scheduled hours.” 

“Another thing we’ll be discussing.” Jon rubs his eyes, feeling a headache coming on. None of this was the seamless take over he had been expecting. 

* * *

The reopening of Parnassus was a quiet affair. The hours sign in the window changed to a hand lettered one proclaiming “9-8, Monday through Saturday. Sundays by appointment only.” The tarp was removed from the connecting door, and at 8:45 Jon came and unlocked the gate across the archway. It was a Tuesday. 

The bottom level of the store felt empty. A few shelving units had been moved into neat rows, each unit dedicated to a genre. The staircase leading to the upper balcony has been roped off, and behind the wrought iron railings are dozens of boxes stacked neatly. A few guests politely make their way over, and when a lull occurs Martin passes the bar off to Tim and goes to look for himself. 

There were only a few books of any given genre out, grouped under neatly lettered signs. The remaining shelving units were pushed up against the back wall, giving visitors ample room to mill about. Many, Martin notices with a bubble of satisfaction, had to go cups from The Muse. 

“Mr. Blackwood.” Martin spins when someone greets him. It’s Jon, looking as though he hasn’t slept in several days. 

“Mr. Sims! I really love what you’re doing with the place. I had never realized it was so - big.” he finishes lamely. “Really, it’s huge with all the shelves not twisty and turny the way Gertrude used to keep them.” 

“I’m hoping to bring some semblance of order and propriety to the place.” Jon says. Martin thinks that if Jon were the type to smile, he would be smiling now. 

“And maybe get some of those big tables for displays. You know, instead of bookshelves. You could do stationary and pens and things too.” Martin is rambling. The tap that controlled the flow of words had been twisted into the “on” position, and now he was as much along for the ride as anyone else around him. “Maybe you could sand down the bookshelves and re varnish them all one color. Make it a bit more homogenous in here. I got pretty handy with that sort of thing when we built that counter in The Muse.” 

“Stationary.” Jon’s voice is as dry as a mormon wedding. “What a creative suggestion.” 

“Well, most bookstores sell notebooks and - oh.” Martin swallows. “That was the - you were trying to make that joke, weren’t you?” Fantastic. He was making an idiot out of himself and they had only been talking for a record breaking minute. 

“How is business next door?” Jon guides the conversation to safer waters. “It seemed busy enough last week.” 

“It’s pretty steady. With the tourists off the water and the museum nearby.” Martin swallows his embarrassment and offers Jon a smile. “‘M sure the bookstore can do well under management that wants it to.” In Martin’s mind, this very smooth pick up line was a step away from Jon smiling at him, and Martin asking him if he’d like to come back to The Muse for a cup of tea. Jon would, of course, say yes, and Martin would have something sufficiently witty and charming that would flow neatly into an invitation for dinner as he talked Jon the finer tasting points of blooming jasmine. 

“That’s good to hear. Maybe one day I’ll be paying you for the pleasure of having the bookstore nestled with such a successful enterprise.” Jon still does not smile, but he steps neatly away from Martin. “I’m going to go make sure Elias isn’t scaring anyone off. Please, excuse me.” 

Martin is left standing alone, watching Jon’s staccato footsteps hurry to the register where a very confused Elias was trying to figure out how to write a credit card slip.  _ “You fool boy.” _ His mother said in his mind, her piercing gaze sizing him up and finding him wanting.  _ “You think a man like that has time for you?”  _

_ No _ , Martin thinks as Jon shoos Elias away from the register and takes over the transaction of a very confused looking woman with a few books of poetry tucked beneath her arm.  _ No, I don’t suppose he does.  _


	3. Chapter 3

“You know, we could just price them all for a couple of bucks and hope for the best. Instead of looking them up on Amazon and Ebay like we work in a charity shop.” Elias sits back against the wooden rails of the balcony, a fine layer of dust covering his inkstained button down and blue jeans. A microfiber cloth is in one hand, and a newly cleaned pile of books rests next to him. 

Jon peers over the rims of his reading glasses, his dark eyes taking a moment to adjust. The project that they had tackled in the morning was moving the shelving that had created the artificial room off the balcony, and sunlight now flooded the balcony and poured down onto the main floor. Jon hadn’t realized there were windows hidden behind the shelves along the wall. Cardboard and foam had been layered over them to block out any light that might have damaged the books, and while Jon could see the practicality of the decision, he could not deny that the space was far more welcoming with the sunlight streaming in. 

“Or not. I guess.” Elias doesn’t cower at Jon’s glare so much as he deflates, a chastised student realizing they had given their professor the wrong answer. Jon’s seat at the table, looking down at Elias as he researches and prices the books, makes him more severe than he intends. 

“Under pricing product isn’t how you run a business.” Jon’s voice is stiff, scratchy from disuse. He and Elias generally worked in what he liked to view as companionable silence - Elias wiping the books down and sorting them by subject, and Jon researching them and writing out the price tags. This is the most they’ve said to each other in three days. Beneath them the bell rings, and a woman with a shock of red hair steps into the store. They both freeze, locking eyes. 

“It’s your turn.” Elias says as a smug smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

“We do not take turns. You work for me.” Jon’s reply is sharp. Despite this, he runs a tired hand through the hair that has fallen into his eyes and stands. 

It’s unusual for people to come in who weren’t first tempted into the muse for caffeine or sugar. It is more unusual for parsers to gather a small pile of books, tucked neatly into the crook of their arm as though they belonged there. She doesn’t look up or seem very interested in Jon as he slips behind the counter, fiddling with the old fashioned register that he still hadn’t replaced.

“Interested in ghost stories?” He asks as he tallies up her total, moving slowly with the unfamiliar system. Of the five titles she had picked only one wasn't about specters or ghost sightings. It was a fiction book, priced for a few dollars, with some brightly colored cover that promised an easy read. 

“Doing a bit of research, yeah.” The woman tucks her bobbed hair behind her ear, giving Jon a blank glance. “What’s Gertrude doing with the place? I don’t think I’ve ever seen it this clean. Or well lit.” 

Oh dear. Jon knew, in the intellectual way, that eventually someone was going to ask after his predecessor. He knew that he would have to tell someone who had potentially known Gertrude for years that the woman had passed on, and she would no longer be part of their daily or monthly lives. But in this moment he freezes, halfway through writing down her card information. 

“She’s passed.” The words are strained as he scans the name on the debit card in his hand. “I’m sorry to inform you, Ms. King.” This could end badly. This stranger could start attempting to emotionally engage with him about Gertrude’s death, and he would have to find all the right platitudes to parrot back if he wanted to maintain her patronage. His hand trembles slightly.

“That’s a shame. She could always suggest a good book for my research.” The woman - Melanie, according to her card - seems unfazed. “She was getting on though, wasn’t she?” Melanie fishes a canvas bag out of her purse and begins to load her purchases up, and the thing that had wrapped around Jon’s heart unclenches. 

“Yes, she was.” Jon’s voice is steady this time. 

“Does that other man still work here? Elias?” She continues to chatter as she returns her card to her wallet, double checking the handwritten receipt and slipping it into one of the books. 

“Yes, he’s upstairs taking care of some housekeeping at the moment.” 

“Tell him I said hello, and I’ll see you folks again soon.” She pushes the door open, the bell ringing merrily above it, and steps out into the murky summer air. 

A long minute passes as Jon stares contemplatively after her. Then another as he turns the interaction over in his head. “Elias!” He finally calls, waiting until the other man shuffles over to the railing and leans over it. “I thought you said that Gertrude didn’t sell books to people.” 

“Was that one of the regulars?” He looks amused. “She had a few people that she said were harmless enough that they could buy. A ghost hunter, a preschool teacher, those types.” Elias tips his head to the side, his glasses catching the late afternoon light. 

“Harmless?” Jon’s brow wrinkles as he wonders if she had lumped him in with the harmless crowd, or if this was a paranoia that had come later in life. “What did she mean by harmless?” 

Elias just shrugs and steps away from the rail to return to his sorting, leaving Jon to wonder what harm could come from selling books. 

* * *

“No, Peter. I just need the boxes out of storage.” Jon is sitting on the crummy little couch in Gertrude’s apartment, a place he still struggles to consider his own. The overhead light casts a murky yellow light, awkward shadows flickering around the claustrophobic bookshelves in time to the whirling of the overhead fan. 

The couch is old and plaid, and what little justice it could be done is utterly denied it by its positioning in the room and the quality of the lighting. The room was designed as though the goal of it was to make its occupants as uncomfortable as possible. Even the TV was positioned so close to the ground that it strained the neck and lower back to watch for too long. 

“Yes Peter, the research I tabled when it wasn’t yielding fast enough progress.” A cup of cooling tea sits on a hexagonal side table. The inside compartment was piled high with records, and Jon had searched high and low for a record player with no luck. It was another confusing facet of the apartment, enough to set his teeth on edge as he refuses to confront the ordeal that sorting through the last of Gertrude’s belongings will be. On the phone, Peter is making excuses for why he simply doesn’t have time to make the drive into the city. Jon takes one deep breath, then another as he studies the popcorn ceiling and tries to control his anger. 

“No, I don’t want to go to Oxford to pick them up!” A pause, and Jon sits up straight as the color rises in his cheeks, frustration blooming beneath his collarbones. “No it’s not unreasonable for me to expect you to bring them. You’re the one who insisted on packing everything away. I couldn’t get to them before I moved, and I couldn’t fit them into the car even if I could have gotten them.” There is a pause as the speaker crackles, and Jon takes a noisy slurp of tea. Little acts of poor manners - tea slurping, yawning, popping his knuckles - had been one of the few things that got under Peter’s skin.

“I’m revisiting old research while I have access to these resources. I’m hoping to make a - Yes, yes. The resources I’m supposed to be selling. I hope you can see why this is very time sensitive.” He stands, beginning to restlessly pace the living room and the hallway that connects it to the rest of the apartment. Peter’s voice on the other side of the line is calm and cool. He knows that acting as though he is in the right will raise Jon’s hackles, provoking Jon into an argumentative mood. 

“Just because I have time to do a little research doesn’t mean I have time to take the train all the way out to Oxford. Peter - I am not being ridiculous, I am being perfectly -” The phone disconnects, leaving Jon to stare at the little device in his hand. “Reasonable.” He says to the cross stitch of a cat that hangs in the hallway. “I’m being perfectly reasonable.” 

Jon moves into the kitchen, and relaxes into the ease that washes over him. The kitchen was his favorite room in the apartment - the only room that truly felt like it belonged to him. It was his kettle on the stove, his dishes in the cupboard (white with little blue and red flowers that he had found in a charity shop), and his favorite mug sitting next to the sink. They were his dishes - his things that he had picked out for the place. They weren’t ordered out of some catalog to match a certain aesthetic. He had chosen them because he liked them. 

During the day this was the room that got the most direct sunlight, and in the evening he can look out the window and catch glimpses of life in the neighboring apartments. It’s snug - a galley kitchen that utilized every inch of available space. It stood in stark contrast to the spa-like bathroom, and Jon sometimes wonders if Jonah took space from the kitchen to expand the bathroom when he had the renovations done.

A small breakfast nook, just big enough for two, had been carved out beneath one of the street facing windows; nestled between the counter, the wall, and the window. It was four feet wide and two feet deep, leaving just enough space for two little stools and a very narrow table. It was Jon’s preferred place to sit when he wasn’t in the shop, and it’s where he settles now as he focuses on ridding himself of the anger he feels whenever he has to deal with Peter. 

The tea cup is still warm in his hands, and he closes his eyes and focuses on that for a moment. Once the warmth has diffused through his fingers and he can no longer tell where his hands end and the cup begins, he opens his eyes to study the pink floral pattern and lets the new found feeling of calm wash over him. He had been meaning to take the cup back to Martin, but every time he thought to bring it down it was dirty. Perhaps this week it would make it. 

He hasn’t been avoiding Martin. But Martin tended to work opening shifts, and Jon had always found he worked best late in the evening and often until the early hours of the morning, and that meant Elias had been working most of the opening shifts in the bookstore. It was a simple scheduling hiccup that lead to them very rarely crossing paths, and had nothing to do with the way that Martin always looked so pleased to see him, and eager to hear about his day. 

Across the way lives two police officers. A young muslim woman and a woman with a starburst scar stretching across her back. He’s seen them arm in arm at The Muse before, leaning into each other as they head off to their shifts. Right now they’re settled down in their living room, the one with the hijab curled upon the other’s chest as they watch something on their television. 

In the street below a child on a red bicycle zips past, and an elderly woman makes her way slowly with bags full of groceries. It is a quiet night, and Jon watches with rapt attention.

* * *

“You know, it’s been two weeks since Parnassus reopened.” Tim says one morning, his opening cup of coffee sitting next to him as he weighs out coffee grounds into reusable quart containers. Martin, for his part, gives a little grunt. Six am is far too early for whatever small talk that Tim wants to make, and Tim has never needed an active participant to make a conversation happen. 

“Maybe once they’ve hit a month we can invite Elias and Jon out to do something. Drinks after work or the like.” Tim prods after a beat of silence. 

“Jon doesn’t really seem like the type, does he? And you all hate Elias.” A feeling of dread builds in Martin’s stomach as he realizes that Tim was making a completely and totally reasonable suggestion to bond with their new co-workers. It was reasonable. It sounded like fun, even. Going out with the staff and grabbing a few drinks at one of the ridiculously overpriced cocktail bars that inhabited the Chelsea streets. Or one of those dive bars that Sasha and Tim frequented, one or the other turning up hungover and grumpy for their opening shift. 

“Elias isn’t all bad.” Tim waves a hand, and Martin banishes thoughts of the two of them smoking outside the store. He’s seen it a few times; assumed that it was just cigarettes because there was no way that Tim would jeopardize a potential research placement over a failed drug test. And it wasn’t like Martin was in the position to judge anybody who had smoked a little bit of weed in their lives. 

Coins rattle noisily into the cash box as Martin turns the proposition over in his head, buying himself just a little time by counting the drawer. It was a good idea. It would help cement camaraderie between the two stores. But it would involve Jon, and alcohol, and imbibing alcohol around Jon; and Martin had never been particularly good at holding his tongue when sober, much less when he was in his cups. 

“I can’t stop you from organizing a staff get together.” Martin finally says. “But you would have to invite both Sashas.” This could be a breaking point for Tim, who did his best to avoid socializing with Not Sasha. He insisted there was something off about her - that no one in real life was ever that nice or helpful or endlessly calm. 

“And you’ll have to invite Jon. Means more when it comes from a fellow owner.” Tim counters, putting away the five pound bag of coffee beans. “It’s weird when your staff invites you out, yeah? But it's not so strange if a peer does it.” 

The same vice that twists Martin’s stomach when Jon is brought up clamps down again, hard and unforgiving. “Why me?” He blurts out, as though Tim hadn’t already answered that question. “I feel like he’d take it better from someone else.” Tim, to his credit, doesn’t respond. Just raises one of those perfectly manicured eyebrows and lets Martin wallow in his budding panic. 

* * *

Elias Bouchard is completely and totally out of his depth. His job had been easy. Stand behind a counter, don’t let anyone steal the money, and don’t let anyone not on the “approved” list buy a book. 

The approved list was small. A handful of semi-regular patrons who bought books that Gertrude was convinced couldn’t hurt anybody. A ghost hunter, a teacher, an elderly woman who only bought knitting patterns, and a teenage boy who wanted crime thrillers. Each had been considered carefully by Gertrude and given the stamp of approval, and Elias was not sure if that meant she found them worthy or wanting. 

His life was no longer that simple. For a slight pay raise he now found himself responsible for being polite, making literary suggestions, putting the books back into their spaces on the shelves when they had been moved, and doing a bit of light dusting whenever he had down time. So far he’d had a lot of down time. 

“Will this one be appropriate for a teenage boy?” A brunette woman, tall and portly, waves a paperback title under his nose. Elias can barely get his eyes to focus on the title as it moves back and forth, much less recall any details about that particular volume. 

“If he likes Sci Fi, he’d probably like it.” Elias finally takes the volume from her, turning it over to skim the description. “If he doesn’t, I’d get him a detective novel or something.” 

“Sci Fi?” The woman looks confused. “You mean like those new Star Wars movies or something?”The particular novel in her hands was a faded paperback copy of  _ Dune _ , and if Elias remembered anything about reading the book as a teenager, it was nothing at all like Star Wars. 

“Yeah, similar. Takes place in outer space and the like.” He hands the thick novel back to her, hoping that this means she is going to buy it and get out so he can return to his writing before Jon appears and makes him do something around the store. Like sorting a box of books or dusting the perfectly maintained shelves.

“He’s very into those Star Wars video games right now, you know. Just bought himself a new one. Kohtore? Have you heard of that?” The woman begins to prattle, setting  _ Dune _ down on the counter as she fishes another selection out of the stack in her arms. “I’m trying to get him off that XBOX. I’m hoping that having something interesting around the house to read will inspire him.” 

The next book to appear is one aimed at pre-teens. It’s cover is dark and taken over by a crown wrapped in thorns. “What do you think about this one?” The woman asks, and Elias realizes that she has four more books to go through. 

“Oh yeah, great one. Holly Black is all the rage with teenagers these days.” Elias has never heard of her, and he has never read this book. “I’d definitely get him that one.” 

It’s another hour before the woman leaves the store, shopping in hand and a pile of books tucked into one of the new paper bags that Jon had ordered, stamped with the name and logo of the store. He had found himself taken with her after a while, listening as she prattled aimlessly about her son. He had even suggested that leave the Holly Black novel, pointing out that it might be a bit too high fantasy for her son given the cover art.

Few teenage boys wanted to get caught reading books about faeries. 

“You know, you’re not so bad at that when you try.” Tim Stoker is leaning against the wall next to the archway, arms crossed and eyebrow raised. The heavy canvas apron that the cafe workers wear is splattered with various beverages and a smear of what might be avocado just across the hip. 

“Seemed like the best way to get her out.” Elias lies, checking his watch. It’s nearly time for Jon to be getting back from whatever meeting he had booked, and all of his writing time is lost. 

“Fastest customer turn around I’ve ever seen. Only an hour to sell one bored mother a half dozen books.” Tim smiles, pushing off the wall to cross over to the counter. This means that Tim wants something. He only ever smiles at Elias when he wants something. “We’re trying to arrange a party for Jon. Can you feel out his schedule and tell me when next week he’d be available to grab drinks with the staff?” 

Elias wants to laugh and tell Tim that Jon will never be ready to grab drinks with the staff. That Jon is crotchety and contrary, and he barely seems to tolerate the time he spends in the store if he’s not pricing books or reading. 

“I’ll check his schedule, sure.” Elias leans forward, forearms resting on the counter. “He’ll be back from his meeting soon. Something about getting old research materials in Oxford.” 

* * *

“I thought you were too busy to meet me.” Jon’s voice is strained as he exits the uber that had brought him from the train station to the storage unit that Peter rented. He had always thought that the unit had been the pinnacle of the life that Peter wanted to tell the world they lived. It was where they hid all the things that they couldn’t bring themselves to get rid of, memories and mementos and off season skiing gear. It was where the belongings that didn’t suit Peter’s aesthetic and the three million dollar apartment were stored. 

Jon’s research had always been a thing that didn’t suit the story that Peter had mapped out for their life. It was something that he was beholden to that was not the other man, a responsibility and the ability for self sufficiency. It proved that Jon was more than the two dimensional cardboard cut out that Peter wanted to present to the world. Jon was more than arm candy and pretty clothes and a body to mind the apartment when Peter was out at sea. 

Peter is dressed in a light wool coat, the checked navy pattern subtle. A small rolling suitcase is resting at his feet. He’s leaning against the wall that leads to the storage offices, a cheeky grin on his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He looks completely and totally out of place in the desolate parking lot of the Cube Smart. 

“I didn’t have time to make it to the city. I have enough time to drive out here. And I needed to bring you the last of your things.” Peter nudges the suitcase with his foot, his grin turning malicious around the edges. 

“I took everything I wanted.” Jon’s voice is measured as he strides past the older man and into the complex of storage units, his agitation only betrayed by the way he fumbles at his keys, hands trembling slightly. 

“It’s just some clothes.” Peter’s voice is close behind Jon as he stalks towards the larger units in the back. It’s ridiculous to let some scraps of fabric work him up like this. It’s only the clothes that Peter had bought him over the course of their five year relationship, tailored and fitted perfectly to him in colors that Peter thought best suited his complexion. It’s clothing for formal events and fancy dinners; clothing that Jon does not recognize himself in, no matter how attractive he looks tucked into Peter’s side while sipping a cocktail. 

“They don’t fit my current lifestyle.” The gravel crunches beneath his feet as he stops in front of the correct unit. It’s not a hard task to undo the padlock and lift the garage style door of the unit. Inside is a collection of furniture, boxes, and a hanging rack with formal wear in the very back. The boxes are full of photos and knick knacks that small mementos from Peter’s travels about the globe. In the front of all of it is the navy velvet couch that Peter had bought on a whim a few months ago before deciding that the color wasn’t quite what he was looking for. A different navy velvet couch currently resides in the living room. 

“It’s just some clothes.” Peter steps past Jon and settles on the couch, crossing one ankle over his knee and draping an arm over the back of the couch. His smile is still there, still curling maliciously at the edges. Jon steadies himself and steps past Peter, looking for the white file boxes that contain his research. 

“I want you to have them. I have a party coming up soon and you need to be dressed appropriately for it.” Peter says after a long minute of Jon rooting around. Jon freezes, straightens, and turns. 

“I don’t understand what you don’t seem to understand about the fact that I broke up with you, Peter.” Jon’s voice is icy, and Peter’s head swivels so he can look at the younger man. His smile is still there, and Jon is overtaken with the urge to do something that will rip it from his face. “I am not going to go crawling back to you. I am not going to accompany you places.  _ I will no longer be your glorified arm candy _ .” Jon’s voice rises in pitch and volume. 

“You were miserable to date. Too full of yourself and your own desires to consider what a partner might need. You wanted a consort to dress up and put on display, not a consenting partner.” Jon climbs, graceless and shaking with anger, back over the boxes and stands before Peter, drawing himself up to his rather unimpressive height. “I would not go back to you and your empty, lonely existence for all the money in the world. You cannot buy me, Peter. So take your clothes and fuck off.” 

Tearing into the other man, saying all the things he had swallowed down every time Peter had fixed him with a condescending smile and told him to “work on his flaws”, does not feel as good as Jon thought it would. Instead of a bubble of self satisfaction, he’s overcome with the sickening sense of having fallen prey to a trap. Of having sunk to Peter’s level and now being caught in the mire. 

The smile has dropped from Peter’s face, his posture shifting forward so that his elbows are resting on his knees. “I think that you know I was exactly the partner you deserved.” He stands, tall and sturdy, and brushes easily past Jon. “Make sure to lock up when you’re done. Can’t have anyone running off with anything.” 

Then Peter is gone, and Jon feels as though he lost something important but unidentifiable in this interaction. 

* * *

“Hey, Jon. I had a question.” Elias pokes his head over the banister when he hears the front door swing open, and the sound of heavy boxes being dropped on the floor. “The guys next door were wondering when you might want to grab a drink with everyone. You know, get to know the team and all.” 

“What makes you think I want to go out for drinks with the staff of the cafe next door?” Jon’s voice is tense, his shoulders near his ears. “That sounds like a horrible idea.” The last thing Jon wants to do is go make small talk over overpriced cocktails while his heart still feels like it’s going to shatter across the floor. While that aching and angry thing that opened up in his chest while he was tearing Peter apart throbs in time to each heartbeat. 

“Uh, I’ll tell them this week isn’t good.” Elias is leaning over the banister, and Jon wants to do something to wipe that patient smile off his face. 

“Can you get down here and do something?” Jon’s voice is sharp as he heads back towards the door. “I don’t pay you to sit around upstairs and be useless.” 

“Yeah, I was just -” The smile is gone, replaced with an emotion that Jon refuses to name. 

“I don’t care what you were doing, I want you to be on the floor while you’re alone in the store.” Jon slips out the door before he can say anything else that he doesn’t mean to give voice to, leaving Elias with the chime of the bell that sits over the door echoing in the store.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta reader has informed that if I have one more chapter of introduction after this, there will be a problem. The good news is that means you can join in next time for the staff party and its uninvited guest.


	4. Chapter 4

Timothy Stoker had decided that if he couldn’t bring Jon to the party, he would just have to bring the party to Jon. The only thing that was standing in his way was his 5’11, sweater wearing boss. 

“Tim, we don’t have a liquor license! If the inspector came in while we were storing the supplies for your little get together, we could be closed down!” Martin crosses his arms, panic spreading across his face. “No, absolutely not. Horrible idea.” 

“Look, we can hide them in the basement, over on Jon’s half.” Tim wheedles. “Then, even if the inspector shows up, the bottles aren’t ours and they can’t say anything about it. It’s not our fault the owner of the bookstore has a problem with hitting the bottles.” 

Martin fidgets with sleeves of his sweater, sighs, and fills up the watering can to avoid making a commitment to tricking Jon into the party. The Muse has several low light plants floating around - ivy on the shelves behind the bar, snake plants tucked next to chairs, a few monstera on end tables. They helped to ward off the darkness that tended to overtake the space, the ceilings lower here to accommodate the little room that Gertrude had constructed out of shelving to house the rare books. The last time he had poked his head into the bookstore he had noticed that Jon had opened the space up and uncovered the windows. The light that now filtered into the bookstore didn’t stretch as far as the cloistered cafe.

The dark wood and leather, combined with the richness of the plants and the books that tricked into the cafe, made the place feel like an old fashioned gentleman's lounge; and sometimes Martin thought he ought to scrap the cafe concept and just serve wine and whiskey. 

“C’mon.” Tim tries again, leaning against the counter. There are a few customers present - a red headed woman reading a book of ghost stories, a couple on a date talking about a book they were reading together - but none of them look up or seem remotely bothered by Tim’s wheedling. “Elias already let the cat out of the bag when I asked him to feel out Jon’s schedule. And since Jon works all the closing shifts anyways all we have to do is hide in the basement and crash his closing routine.” 

“Fine, fine.” Martin caves, waving a flustered hand at Tim as he balances on a stool to reach some of the higher ivys. This is undoubtedly a horrible idea, a breach of trust between the bookshop and the cafe. But his staff is looking forward to it. Sasha and Tim were already planning the punch they wanted to make (something with Gin and Prosecco and lemon). And Jon seemed like he could really use a night of chatting with some friends. 

Jon had been tense since his trip out to Oxford a few days ago. This morning he had stumbled into the cafe right at opening, looking like he hadn’t slept all night. His hair had been matted, and the bags under his eyes looked as though they were packed for a three week international trip. Martin hadn’t been sure if Jon had realized where he was as he placed his order, received an iced quadruple espresso, and shuffled off towards the outside door that led up to his flat. 

He had brought his own cup, a bottle green juice glass etched with flowers. It had reminded Martin of something his mother would have set the table with for breakfast, eight ounces of orange juice to balance out a healthy breakfast and the impenetrable silence that dominated the table. 

“Saturday is best - the cafe opens late and the bookstore doesn’t open at all on Sundays.” Martin steps down from the stool, only wobbling slightly. 

“Yes, sir.” Tim’s ever present smile widens. The red headed woman licks a finger and turns a page in her book, the couple gets up to head into the bookstore. The feeling of dread twists in Martin’s stomach, and he reminds himself that nothing horrible is going to happen because they throw a little party. Parties are harmless. 

* * *

Rain falls, thick and heavy on the Chelsea streets. The grey presses against the windows, robbing the cafe of what little natural light it was normally lent. The Muse is cast in dim yellow light, pooling from the exposed edison bulbs that were so on trend when Martin opened two years ago. Now they felt overdone. Not-Sasha was crouched beneath the counter, using a hand broom to sweep up the coffee debris and dust that was often overlooked in the hasty closing cleaning. 

They have not had a customer in over an hour, the street devoid of the types of casual shoppers who tended to slip into used book stores and dimly lit cafes. Several days have passed since Tim had started to stockpile party wares in the basement: a handle of gin, bags of corn chips, a punch bowl with matching glasses that Martin is certain was stolen from someone’s grandmother. Jon either had not been down to the basement, or he had not deemed it worth commenting on, and Martin can only assume that Jon had decided the rampant alcoholism of the cafe workers was not his problem. 

A phone is ringing in the cafe. This is strange, since there are no customers and Martin’s phone is set to do not disturb - only specific numbers can ring through. Not-Sasha looks up from her crouched position, and from where he’s sitting and fiddling with payroll he can clearly see her phone on the counter. The screen is dark. 

“Are you going to answer that?” She asks on the third ring, which sends Martin scrambling into motion. His mother’s face dominates the screen, a picture from several Easters ago when he had taken the trip out to Devon and attended mass with her. She had seemed happier that morning, dressed in a pastel floral dress and pale yellow hat piled with cloth flowers. 

_ “You’re a good boy, Martin.” _ The mother in his memory tells him, sitting in the passenger seat of his crappy little car, gloved hands folded in her lap.  _ “You wouldn’t abandon me.” _ He can taste the cloying chocolate candy that had been in the brightly colored plastic eggs that everyone had received before the luncheon. He can feel that warm surge of pride at hearing her say that. 

He answers the phone. 

“Martin Blackwood.” His voice is crisp, as though he were expecting a business associate or a casual acquaintance to be on the other end of the line.

“Martin.” His mother’s voice is soft, barely more than a whisper against the receiver. “You haven’t come to visit.” He can feel the disappointment in her voice grate against his skin, another dissatisfaction to add to her pile. He was queer, uneducated, had never held a real job. At thirty three he was no closer to accomplishing any of her markers for success than he had been at thirteen. 

“You, ah, haven’t been taking my calls. Or answering my emails.” He turns away from the counter, as though Not-Sasha would be less capable of hearing him in the small room by virtue of lack of eye contact. 

“Don’t talk back to me.” His mother snaps, her voice growing slightly louder. “I told you that I expected you to come out at least once a month. It’s been three since you were here.” The last time he had visited her it had been the beginning of July. They had eaten vanilla ice cream cups with little wooden sticks that the nurses had handed out as they ushered everyone onto the porch to take in the sunshine. It had been hot, and they had played checkers as his mother told him about the latest gossip amongst the nursing home residents. 

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted to see me. You haven’t been taking my calls.” The words taste of defeat as they leave his mouth. This wouldn’t be the first time she had refused to see him. Before he had been making money, when she was living on her pension and government funds and had been staying in his rapidly falling apart childhood home, she had refused to see him regularly. He would ring the doorbell or knock for an hour, seeing the flicker of the curtains from the corner of his eye. It hadn’t been until he could afford to place her in a nicer care facility that she had suddenly been interested in his continued presence. 

“I told you I wanted to see you once a month.” She repeats, and Martin swallows a wave of frustration. 

“I’m sorry. I can go visit next weekend.” Next weekend lets Tim throw his party and Martin can arrange the schedule however he sees fit because his three staff members owe him. Mid October is a good time to take a few days off work - maybe he could even book a room at a B&B and get out of the city for forty-eight hours. 

“I suppose that’s fine.” His mother says. He can feel the wave of satisfaction through the receiver, and can’t help but feel as though she’s a spider, circling the fly caught in her web. “I’ll see you next Sunday. Bring something nice to wear.” The line clicks off, and Martin stares dumbly at the phone for a moment. 

“Girl troubles?” Not-Sasha asks after a long silence, not looking up from her own phone. She’s leaning against the counter, a brunette curl falling out of the pony tail she wears behind the counter. 

“Just my mother.” Martin sets the phone down and twists further, looking out the window. There he can see Daisy and Basira, tucked under a yellow umbrella, fumbling with the keys to their front door. Daisy nudges the other woman forward once the door is open, before clicking the umbrella shut and following her in. 

Martin twists back to face Not-Sasha, ignoring the pang of longing that courses through his nerves. “You know, it’s about an hour to close. I think we can go ahead and close up for the day. You have everything clean and there’s no use standing around.” 

“What if someone comes in from the bookshop?” Not-Sasha nods at the archway, the metal gate tucked to the side. 

“I’ll ask Jon to come lock it. I’m sure they’re having a similarly slow day.” Martin gives her a smile, and begins to pack up the clunky laptop that he uses for shop matters. He tries to reassure her with that smile; to tell her that everything is fine and will be fine, and there is no reason to worry after him. 

* * *

There are exactly three customers in the book store, and Jonathan Sims hates each and every one of them. There is the middle aged mother with grey at her temples who keeps asking after “that nice young man who was here last time, because my boy just loved his book recommendations”. There is an elderly man with a newspaper who has taken up residency on the overstuffed couch beneath the back window, despite the fact that Jon does not sell newspapers, or even know where this man procured one. Last, and by no means least, there is the college student sitting at the long table in the space that used to be the rare book room. The student would have been bearable, if she had been using the books as a reference. As far as Jon can tell she’s just mooching off the free wifi that did not hold the expectation to order a coffee at The Muse.

“Is this a good one? He didn’t enjoy  _ Dune _ so much; thought it was a bit dense.” The woman has a stack of ten books and is leaning on the counter, showing each of them to Jon. She’s been doing this for thirty minutes, and there is no sign of an end being in sight. 

“I haven’t read that one either.” Jon replies through gritted teeth. “Ma’am, I’m afraid that I really don’t know much about YA literature or Science Fiction. If you would like to wait for Elias to be in again, he should be opening tomorrow.” The woman deflates, setting down the creased copy of  _ Horus Rising _ that marked the halfway point of the pile. 

“I promised him I’d bring books home today, and it’s so good to see him reading instead of fiddling around on that game system of his.” The woman looks like a kicked puppy, and Jon refuses to feel bad for her. Her parenting skills (or lack thereof, if this interaction is anything to go by) are not his problem. His problem is the box of research that is waiting upstairs, and the rapidly approaching closing time. 

“My grandmother used to just purchase anything she could get her hands on for under a pound. Barring that, you can always just buy one and come back in the morning to talk to Elias.” Jon deadpans. His fingers drum at the top of the pile of books he had been pricing when the woman began to accost him. Today was moral philosophy day, and it seemed that every student at university had discarded their old text books and primary sources here. Battered copies of Plato’s  _ Republic  _ were grouped with Locke’s treatises. Sarte’s plays and thick utilitarian texts weighed down the six boxes he and Elias had dedicated to the subject. 

The woman apparently thinks that coming back to see Elias is the better of the two options, and decides to take  _ Horus Rising _ home to her son. In line behind her is Martin Blackwood, his hands awkwardly in the pockets of his slightly too large jeans. 

“Hello, Jon.” Martin begins, raising one hand to scratch at the skin behind his ear. “We were closing up early next door and I was just wondering if you’d mind locking up the gate.” 

“Sure.” Jon fishes the keys from the drawer under the antique register, fishing around next to the credit card slips and the long since abandoned imprint machine. The keys ring bore a bright pink pom pom, roughly the size of a tennis ball, and Jon had wondered more than once of Gertrude was prone to losing the keys in her advanced age, or if Elias was the one who was guilty of setting them down in random places and completely forgetting about them. Having watched Elias open the store one morning, Jon was equally inclined to believe both. 

“I was wondering,” Martin begins as he follows Jon from the register to the arch. His hands tuck back into his jean pockets, twisting on themselves. Jon had noticed that Martin was a nervous man. Each of their interactions was rich with pregnant pauses and Martin’s tick of rubbing behind his left ear. Now was no different, the bulky man frozen and leaning against the white washed wall, lips parted as though to finish a thought that had not yet fully formed. 

“Yes?” Jon asks, grateful he’s turned away so that Martin can’t see the twitch of his face as the silence stretches. He’s too impatient, too expressive. Students had feared his scorn when he was a TA, and other researchers had been reluctant to ask his advice. 

“Well, you’re new in town, yeah?” Now that the words had begun to pour from Martin’s mouth he doesn’t appear to be able to stop. “And I figured, well, maybe you don’t know anybody yet. And maybe you’d like to get to know some of my, ah friends. We have a trivia team that meets at Elm Park Tavern on Thursday nights. And tonight is Thursday. And you just seem like someone who would be awfully good at trivia, you know?” 

Jon pauses, still turned away from Martin as he withdraws the key from the lock. He hadn’t been invited to a group outing in years. He hadn’t attended one in longer. Peter had always expected his complete attention once the work day was over, and if he had been out at sea Jon needed to be near the phone to talk every night. 

“I’m not very good at trivia. I think I’ll have to sit this one out.” Jon lies, turning to face Martin. His eyes slip past to watch the old man, still carefully reading his newspaper. He ignores the way Martin’s face falls, ignores the pang in his own gut. 

“Well, maybe next time? The invitation is open.” Martin gives a brave attempt at a smile. It skirts the corners of his mouth before finally retreating in defeat, the battle lost. 

“Maybe. Have a good night, Martin.” Jon’s answering smile is dry, academic. Perfected at parties spent standing silently at Peter’s side. He ignores the longing that twists in his gut, and reminds himself that he had never been much of a hit at social gatherings. It was best to spare everyone the trouble, and he could use the time to work on his research. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

* * *

Closing the store is not going according to plan. Jon had counted the money, filled out and logged the deposit slip, and dropped the deposit in the little safe beneath the counter. He had made a pile of books that had been left lying around, and was getting ready to start pruning the shelves for misfiled literature when the door leading back to the basement swung open. It was nine pm. No one should have been down there as The Muse had closed up an hour ago, Tim and the woman with the braids locking the door and calling their goodnight through the gate. 

Jon is suddenly aware of how alone he is in this big, empty building. It is a strange thing, to reflect upon being absolutely alone. To listen to the way the walls pop as they settle in the cool night air, to see the distortion of darkness as it slips around the corners of the book shelves, to hear the rustling of an abandoned paper moving beneath a breeze. The weight of something watching settles on Jon’s shoulders as a small hysterical bubble of panic begins to rise in his chest. There are footsteps coming from the basement. He is not alone. 

“Careful there, Elias! That punch bowl belongs to my grandmother.” Tim’s voice is bright, jovial, as it cuts through the bookstore. Elias emerges first - carrying a cut glass punch bowl full of something yellow and sparkling. From the flush across his cheeks he’s already imbibed some of its contents. Right behind Elias was the woman with the braids and the red bandanna, her arms full of prosecco bottles and a handle of gin. She marches past Jon to the counter, and after setting everything down, begins to pull the shades shut, making sure the sign in the window has been flipped to closed. 

Tim is up next, balancing metal mixing bowls and bags of chips, which he promptly dumps on the counter. “So I ordered pizza.” He announces to no one in particular, emptying bags into bowls and swiping a chip here or there. “Wasn’t sure what everyone liked, so I just got a cheese pie and then my favorite.” 

Martin and the bland blonde girl that Jon has only ever heard referred to as “Not-Sasha” are the last to come up. Their arms are empty, and both wear sheepish expressions, like children caught in the middle of an act that is not technically against the rules but that they know will displease mother.

“Happy house warming, Jon.” Martin looks nervous. “We thought a touch of celebration was in order, what with it being your first month open and all.” Overhead, decrepit speakers that Jon had thought long broken crackle to life, and some Top 50s tune begins to play. Tim and the braided woman whom Jon has just figured out is named Sasha, bicker over the fact that Tim has the worst taste in pizza. 

“Lighten up, boss.” A glass is pushed into Jon’s hand, and the reek of the gin hits him from a foot away. Whatever it was that they had tried to make (a French 75 by the look of the ingredients), they had certainly given it the college try. A quick taste confirms his suspicion that the ratio of gin to bubbles is skewed in favor of the gin. 

“Elias, did you know about this?” Jon is determined to not get angry. These people were trying to do something nice for him and he wasn’t going to be ungrateful or rude, even though the sudden disarray of his schedule and routine had his hackles raised. 

“Yeah, we all knew about it.” Elias looks utterly nonchalant as he takes a sip of what Jon has mentally dubbed “the paint stripper”. The sting of the alcohol doesn’t seem to phase Elias at all. “It seemed like you needed a little something to help you lighten up and celebrate. We’ve actually sold some books, so we’re already doing better!” 

“Did Gertrude not sell books?” Martin looks puzzled, as any proprietor of a business would when learning that a shop they frequented refused to sell. Jon bites back a bitter laugh. Apparently Gertrude had been better at hiding her eccentricities than he originally thought. Elias moves towards the bookshelves, drawing Martin with him, and begins an anecdote about Gertrude refusing to sell a set of Dr. Suess books to an expecting mother. Martin does his part, nodding and gasping in all the right places, and Jon feels of an emotion he refuses to name in his chest.

* * *

The party ticks on. The pizza arrives, the punch bowl is refilled, a deck of cards gets brought out and people huddle around the low table sandwiched between the couch and the armchairs in the back corner. Everyone is laughing, crammed together on the couch or two to an armchair as Sasha tries to regale them with stories of her dancing career. 

When the music begins to crackle, no one reacts. Jon thinks that perhaps they were expecting it; that the system was closer to being in a state of disarray than he originally thought and they knew it would give up on them eventually. He’s drunk less than the others have: Elias with his bright red cheeks and puddling vowels; Martin with his messy curls and rolling laugh; Tim, composed as ever with a too bright glint to his eye; both Sashas leaning into each other on an armchair. They look cozy, familial, and Jon is overcome with a feeling of otherness as he regards them. 

The music fades away. 

Jon can see when each of them realize that the room has grown silent. The Sashas lean away from each other, Martin sits up straighter. They drop, one by one, into uneasy silence; exchanging nervous glances with each other and the speakers. 

“Do you want to fix that, Elias?” Martin asks, his words suddenly clipped. Jon doesn’t understand what’s so frightening to all of them about a speaker going out. The electricity in the building has always been funny, it’s part of the reason that they still haven’t gotten a POS to work. 

“Sure.” Elias is unsteady on his feet as he approaches the counter, his fingertips trailing across the spines of the books as he crosses the store. When he picks up his iphone, the speakers crackle once more. The lights grow bright, casting the room in blinding white light, before the bulbs start to shatter one by one, and the scent of smoke fills the air. Jon can hear the sharp sound of something heavy hitting the floor. 

“Son of a whore, my fucking hand.” Elias swears. Jon’s gut twists at hearing the raw pain in Elias’s voice, and it’s a moment before he thinks to whip out his phone and turn on the flashlight. He crosses the floor to Elias, his footsteps the only sound besides the pained whimpering coming from the shop clerk. The others are rooted in place, and Jon can only assume that they’re watching with rapt attention. 

“Show me your hand.” Jon’s voice is stiff, not betraying the concern he feels for his employee, as he crouches down. The shattered husk of Elias’s charred iphone lies next to them, still emitting acidic smoke. The younger man holds out his hand, revealing pink, puckered fingers and a blister already forming across his palm. 

“You should be fine. Read up on burn care on google and take some painkillers.” Jon knows he sounds callous, but he doesn’t have any better advice to give. “I’d offer to wrap it, but I’m relatively certain that you’re supposed to let a burn breathe or some such.” It’s his best attempt at softening the first statement, his attempt to prove he does care about the well being of his employees.

A loud crack echoes from behind him. One of the Sashas screams, terror tight in her voice. It seems enough to break the spell that had been rooting the others into place, and they come alive in a burst of activity and nervous laughter. Jon whirls around, the beam of his flashlight finding a book, face down on the floor. A quick scan of the balcony reveals there is no figure standing at the rails, and no sound of fleeing footsteps. They are alone. Jon remembers the feeling of eyes upon him while he was closing, piercing and omnipresent. 

“It’s, ah, Hamlet?” Martin lifts the book off the ground, studying the cover as Tim and the Sashas continue on to crowd Elias. Jon backs off, feeling once again out of place as Tim studies Elias’s hand with a look of concern and the Sasha with the red bandanna pets his hair. The blonde woman, also hanging back, gives Jon a wry smile with something akin to camaraderie etched across her face. Jon crosses to Martin instead, determined to get a look at the book.

It is  _ Hamlet _ that Martin is holding, open to the fourth page. Martin doesn’t resist when Jon gingerly takes the book from him, frowning. A single line has been circled.  _ MARCELLUS: Thou art a scholar. Speak to it, Horatio.  _ Jon takes a moment to skim the passage. It is the very beginning, where the figure that is suspected to be the ghost of Hamlet’s father is seen by the guards. Jon snorts and snaps the book closed.

“Good thing we have three scholars in residence, right?” Martin jokes weakly, gesturing between Jon, Elias, and Tim. “Any one of you could go talk to the ghost.” Jon’s nose wrinkles in disgust. 

“It must have been balanced on the rail. The electrical spike that blew out the lights and fried Elias’s phone knocked it down.” Jon’s tone holds no room for argument. He is not here to entertain crackpot theories about ghosts and ghouls. There was a perfectly rational explanation for the lights blowing out the way they did. The party ending so abruptly was unfortunate, but undoubtedly for the best. These were his employees, and they should have a favorable impression of him. Not a drunken one.

“Gertrude used to say this place was haunted.” Elias says after a long moment of silence. “I always thought she was just going batty, but I think she might have been right.”


	5. Chapter 5

“This is ridiculous.” Jon’s voice is flat. Some candles had been fished out of one of the many cupboards beneath the register (and why Gertrude was keeping candles and matches in a store full of highly flammable objects, Jon has no idea), and placed on the counter to light their small vigil. The blonde Sasha (Not-Sasha, Jon thinks he heard Tim call her), is sweeping piles of broken glass and light bulb components into tidy piles. The sound of the glass is bright and musical, a detail that stands in stark contrast to the situation.

“Gertrude was pretty sure of it.” Elias counters. His voice is tight and hazy with pain, his eyes refusing to focus when looking at Jon. Jon knows it isn’t fair to keep him here, to keep rehashing the same line of questioning over and over because of his utter refusal to believe that this is anything more than an electrical surge.

“Gertrude was an elderly woman. She might not have been all there.” Martin offers hesitantly. He’s wrong, and Jon knows that. Gertrude had been elderly, yes. But she had been mentally acute when Jon had known her, and she hadn’t been all that much older at the time of her death. Jon leans back against the counter, rubbing his face with tired hands. 

“I think the best thing we can do right now is get Elias home. A trip to the GP or minor urgency in the morning will cost less than a trip to Lenox Hill.” Jon says, dropping his hands to his lap. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for him to be navigating the subway alone while in this condition.” 

“I’ll take him home, I know his address.” Tim volunteers, stepping towards Elias. 

“Do you?” Sasha asks, her head cocked and eyebrow raised. 

“I’ve been over once or twice. Don’t give me that look.” Tim makes a dismissive gesture at her. The room pops with a sudden tension that Jon can’t name. 

“Well, if you’re going to be taking him, go ahead and take him.” Jon makes a shooing motion. It’s past midnight, and despite the fact that tomorrow is supposed to be his day off, he now has to come in and deal with changing every single light bulb in the entire store. 

“I’ll come too.” Sasha says definitively, grabbing coats for the three of them from the pile they had been left in on the counter. “And since Tim seems to know where we’re going, he can pay for the cab.” 

“That’s not fair.” Tim starts to protest, hauling one of Elias’s arms over his shoulder. “C’mon, snobby. We had best listen to mother.” 

“Don’t call me that.” Sasha throws over her shoulder. With a bright twinkling of bells, she’s out the front door. Tim sighs, guiding Elias by a hand resting, flat and open, against his hip. They disappear into the night behind Sasha. 

“Do they-?” Jon starts to ask, turning to Martin. 

“Not that I know of.” Martin seems just as flummoxed. 

“I think TIm and Sasha-” Not-Sasha begins, before her cheeks turn bright red. “Not that it’s any of my business.” It isn’t any of her business, Jon thinks idly, and it’s not any of his either. If the staff here, young and inexperienced as they all seem to be, want to have messy relations with each other it is firmly none of his business so long as they keep intimate actions off the property. 

“Yes, well, Miss Brown. I think you’re under no obligation to hang about any longer. You should go home for a good night's sleep.” Martin’s voice is surprisingly firm as he takes the broom from the girl and hands her a mauve, checkered coat. She makes the swap and leaves, and Martin has the good grace to pretend to not notice the look of relief on her face. Jon leans against the counter, face once again in his hands. This insistence of the staff that the store was haunted was absurd, and certainly not good for expecting any of them to work closing shifts. 

“You know,” Martin’s voice cuts across Jon’s reflections, “I, ah, don’t think I could sleep after all this. Perhaps you want to join me for a cup of tea? I’ve got a sleepy time relaxation blend with chamomile and lavender and some other floral extract.” 

Jon could say no. His apartment is right upstairs and it would be easy to disappear and put all of this to bed. He could turn down Martin for the second time this week, and perhaps this time the other man would get the message. But he doesn’t want to be alone. Despite the fact he is sure that there is no ghost, no haunting, and no reason to be afraid; he doesn’t want to go upstairs and stare at the yellowing walls of the apartment that still doesn’t feel like his. 

“That would be nice.” Jon replies, lowering his hands again. “I think a cup of tea is exactly what I need.” The keys to the arch are easy to find, and Martin beams down at Jon as Jon unlocks the gate, ridiculous pink pom pom in hand. There is a flutter in Jon’s throat, and he swallows it down before gesturing Martin through to The Muse. 

* * *

“Jonathan! I thought I might find you here.” Jonah Magnus’s voice carries through the store, nearly causing Jon to topple from the fifteen foot ladder he’s perched on. Jon is elbows deep in one of the light fixtures, needle nose pliers in hand, trying to rotate the metal bit of the bulb from the base. 

“Oh?” Jonathan can’t imagine why - today is Sunday, and the store is closed on Sunday. It’s the day that’s left open to travel and visit collectors, for the sake of both purchasing and selling. He hasn’t yet finished making a catalogue of the books that might be of interest to collectors, and thus has been using the day to work on the research he pilfered from Peter’s storeroom. 

“Just a feeling.” Jonah does not comment on how dark it is with only half the light fixtures lit. He doesn’t ask why Jon is systematically replacing all of the light bulbs in the store. “I did want to thank you for prepaying the year’s rent. I wasn’t aware you had enough liquid assets to do so, and I know that acquiring a flailing business can be quite the financial strain.” 

“The year’s rent?” Jon climbs down the ladder. He certainly did not have the liquid funds to pay Jonah the entire year up front. Paying the next month’s rent was already going to be difficult enough. 

“Yes your lawyer was very clear about it.” Jonah’s eyes flit across the rows of books that have been slowly trickling onto the shelves. “You keep an orderly shop, Jonathan. Very different from your predecessor.” 

“My lawyer?” Jon asks, not getting distracted by the desire to press Jonah about the type of shop Gertrude kept. 

“Yes, a Mr. Lukas? He said he represented your estate.” Jonah’s face is alight with glee, as though he’s laughing at some joke that only he understood. “Mr. Nathaniel Lukas. He must be a very generous benefactor, if this payment comes as a surprise.” 

“Yes.” Jon wishes he had not pressed. “I’ll be sure to contact the Lukases tonight with my thanks.” Anger flares, bright and bright in his chest even as dread sinks heavy in his stomach. He rests a hand on the ladder, suddenly overcome with the immensity of the task that running the shop was shaping up to be. “You had mentioned Gertrude. Did she ever tell you that she thought the store was haunted? Elias said something about it the other day.” Jon winces. The question had burbled out despite his desire to keep the paranoia of the staff under wraps. Jonah’s smile grows. 

“Yes, she had mentioned it to me in passing. Never gave much stock to the theory myself.” Jonah bends forward slightly, examining the philosophy books without taking one. His hands are kept folded behind his back, and Jon is reminded of Mr. Spock from Star Trek wearing the same expression of clinical disinterest. 

“So you’ve never seen any ghosts or supernatural happenings?” Jon pushes again. He’s asked the first question, and he might as well embrace the others that wanted to follow. If Jonah is going to judge him, the judgement is already cast. 

“Never. I do know she was looking into ways to rid herself of the ghost she believed haunted this place. Called it a malicious entity.” 

“Did she ever tell you what she was looking into?” Jon can’t help but wonder what had caused Gertrude to consider the ghost malicious. If she had struggled with regular power surges like the one that he had witnessed last night, or if perhaps a draft had the tendency to knock things about in the night. He had heard the way the building could settle at night, some of the popping and thumping sounding like the very walls were trying to come alive to eat the inhabitant. 

“Have you grown convinced that this place is haunted?” The amused sparkle in Jonah’s eyes dance, and Jon swallows down the shame at being associated with such a crackpot theory. As an academic he had worked long and hard to earn his posting at Princeton, maintaining a clinical layer of doubt in all of his research. A casual interest in the paranormal was the sort of interest that could have ruined his reputation. 

Peter had liked to tease Jon about his fascination with ghost stories and hauntings. That teasing could take a critical turn, especially when brought up at holiday dinners or vacations with the Lukas family. They would turn to him with their polite disinterest thinly veiling disdain and inquire as to how hauntings related to the project he was currently working on at the university. 

“One of Gertrude’s regulars was a ghost hunter named Ms. King. I thought if she had said anything to you about the haunting, I could pass the recommendation on to her.” Jon replies, tossing the pliers into the toolkit at the base of the ladder. There are still eight more light bulbs to change, but he has the distinct feeling that once Jonah leaves he’s going to need to take a break from the store. 

“Very magnanimous, Jonathan.” Jonah’s smile fades, lips pursing as he struggles to recall a long past conversation. “If I recall correctly, she was pursuing a book from the collection of Jurgen Leitner. Something on exorcism or possession. You know, one of those singular tomes that tended to fall into his possession. It is, perhaps, outside the paygrade of a hobbyist ghost hunter.” 

Jonathan had heard of Jurgen Leitner, of course. Everyone who had brushed elbows with the rare book world had some notion of the Norweigen eccentric whose library was rumored to specialize in the supernatural. It was also rumored to be cursed. Jon had never heard of someone coming into possession of a Leitner and living a long and healthy life. 

“Perhaps.” He concedes with a nod of his head. “I’ll be sure to pass along the information to her regardless.” 

“Well, that wraps up my reason for being here. Jonathan, it is always a pleasure to see you.” Jonah gives Jon another of those deeply amused smiles. “I’m going to step next door and check in with Martin about the rent situation. I’m assuming you don’t just want me to roll the additional money over? Your solicitor was very particular about making sure that it was paid for the entire space, and I’m afraid that the rent that Martin is charged was bundled into that number. It just entirely slipped my mind.” 

“It’s fine.” Jon replies, already dreading the impending confrontation with Peter. “If the rent is paid for the entire space, I’m hardly going to split hairs about what money is owed where.”  _ Martin seems like he could use the break.  _ Jon pointedly doesn’t say it, and he’s not sure if the nudge in Jonah’s smile is because he understands or because he doesn’t. 

* * *

Getting a hold of Peter Lukas was never easy. You had to actually have a contact number that didn’t go directly to voicemail, which was a rare and treasured thing. Then he had to be on land to receive the call, and then he had to actually answer the goddamned phone. If any one of these things failed to happen, the call was generally rerouted to the desk of Nathaniel Lukas, who managed most of the back end of the family shipping business. 

“I’m trying to get a hold of Peter.” Jon is sitting in the breakfast nook, back to the window, and trying to keep himself from hanging up on the frustration that is trying to get something out of Nathaniel Lukas. 

“I’m afraid he’s out on a voyage. Perhaps you would like to leave a message for when he returns?” Nathaniel’s voice is smooth, even over the static of the telephone line. It’s a glass wall that keeps any uncomfortable inquiries far away from what he likes to call  _ family matters _ . 

“I know that he has a satellite phone. Can you get me the number?” 

“I’m afraid that number is reserved for emergencies. If you believe you’re having one, I’d be glad to reach out to him on your behalf.” Nathaniel has no intention of contacting Peter. If Jon’s message was deemed important enough, it would be left in a pile of other important messages for Peter to sort through and answer (or ignore) when he got home.

“I just need to talk to him about a, ah, gift.” Jon shifts so that he can rest his elbows on the narrow, white table. He studies the ceiling fan overhead, it’s pale blades turning in idle circles. It had been curious that the electrical surge hadn’t blown out the bulbs in his apartment (or in The Muse), and Jon assumes it must have been because they had been turned off at the time of the accident. The only lit bulb had been the heavy brass lamp in the living room, and it had survived. 

“The rent? Yes, he was very particular before he left that he wanted me to wrap that up. Perhaps he meant it as a parting gift to you?” 

“A parting gift?” Jon’s voice rises in pitch. “Why on earth would he pay a year's rent on my business as a parting gift?” 

“He was rather distraught after you left him.” There is no accusation in Nathaniel’s tone. If anything, he sounds amused by the entire ordeal. Jon, for his part, can’t imagine Peter being distraught about anything. Mildly annoyed. Frustrated. Amused. That was the extent of Peter Lukas’s emotional portfolio.

Jon knows better than to believe that the gift was innocent. It was a lure - something to drag him back into Peter’s grasp. But for what reason Peter wants him, he has no idea. Vanity? Power? Self satisfaction? There were plenty of other ways for Peter to pursue those rushes without pursuing Jon. 

“I’m sorry to hear that. Please pass along my desire to talk to him about this.” Jon says. There’s a fifty fifty chance that Nathaniel actually will, but that isn’t Jon’s problem. 

“Of course. It was a pleasure to hear from you, Jon.” Nathaniel’s reply is distant, as though he had already started to move the phone away from his face. The line clicks off before Jon can reply, leaving him with a faint static buzzing in his ear and no more resolution than he had started with. 

With a sigh, Jon sets the phone down. The clock on the stove reads 8:43, meaning that he has a few more hours to throw himself into his project. He had thought that being surrounded by books and in an environment that had traditionally been productive for his research would have kick started his desire to actually delve into the boxes of research that he had pilfered. Instead he had spent the last week reading and rereading what little he had written up, going over the outlines and the dog eared pages and looking for inspiration. 

Nothing is clicking. The anthologies of aboriginal folk tales that he had been looking into, trying to find the common themes and threads, seemed trite and over done. There were no new conclusions to be reached there, not without new primary sources. 

He toys with the idea of pulling the books out yet again. They were so hard fought for, and pride demands that he actualizes his intent. Instead he stands and crosses to the kettle to make a cup of tea. A few hours of pricing books is sure to wear him out, and once something productive has been accomplished he can go to bed. 

* * *

The next time Jon sees Melanie King, he does not tell her about the Leitner that Gertrude had been pursuing to bring about the end of the supposed haunting in the book store. It’s Tuesday. She comes in, face set with confidence, and slaps a resume on the counter. 

“You need to hire me.” Melanie tells him, a defiant tilt to her chin. 

“I need to hire you,” Jon repeats, raising an eyebrow. It is true that the shop has been getting busier since Elias had set up an Instagram page for it, taking pictures of the store, the books, and once a few friends reading in the sun dappled back corner. 

“Yeah. You and Elias are always here, and you both need more time away from this place. He keeps complaining that he hasn’t had a chance to work on his novel in a month.” Melanie leans forward to rest her arms on the counter. As far as Jon can tell, she’s convinced that she already has the job, and he would be hard pressed to disagree. 

“Do you have any retail experience, Ms. King?” He begins to skim her resume. A BA from Hunter, a few clerical jobs, and the managing partner of a YouTube channel called - Jon does a double take. “Are you seeking employment here because Elias has gotten it into his head that the store is haunted?” 

“I’m curious about it.” Melanie is unashamed in her answer, a smile curling around the edges of her lips. “But my partner on the show ran off, and I’m finding myself short of funds and with an excess of time on my hands. So I thought I’d take a job at my friendly, neighborhood bookstore. 

Jon raises an unamused eyebrow. He is willing to put money on the fact that Melanie King does not live anywhere near this trendy strip of Chelsea. An address is conspicuously missing from her resume; something that could be chalked up to housing instability, frequent apartment hopping, or a private personality. While it is within Jon’s purview to ask, he doesn’t feel the need. 

“There will be no discussing this particularly amusing pet theory with customers, is that clear?” Jon’s tone is that of a man who does not understand an inside joke, but is determined to laugh along with everyone else. He understands an interest in the occult, but it is something that should be kept away from polite company. It certainly had no place in the store. 

“Crystal.” Melanie leans back and stretches in the sunlight that streams through the street facing windows, the cat that got the cream. “I’m not available Tuesdays, because that’s when I do volunteer work. And I can’t work past five on Thursdays, I have a social commitment.” 

Jon fumbles for a sleeve of business cards. They were printed, thankfully, with the information of the store and no other more personal markers. “Could you please email that to me? I’ll send you a potential schedule and onboarding paperwork by tomorrow night.” 

“Yeah. I’ll hear from you tomorrow.” She gives Jon one last smile and heads out the door. There’s a pause as Jon scans the room again, putting eyes on each of the six customers who were milling about or taking advantage of the seats to read. It is calm, the customers content. Then, Jon realizes that he has no idea how to hire somebody. 

* * *

“He asked me how to write a contract to hire somebody.” Martin is resting his head in his hands, elbows propped on the worn wooden bar at Elm Park Tavern. Trivia is over, their little team having come no where close to winning (per usual), and it was Martin’s turn to pick up the tab. 

“That seems pretty standard.” Michael Shelly gives Martin a polite smile. They were the only two left; Sasha, Gerard, and Anika having headed home rather quickly after their defeat. The dark blue walls of the tavern are black in the dim light, and the golden backsplash behind the bar is the only discernible splotch of color. 

They had been coming here for trivia nights for nearly a decade. They were familiar with the other Thursday night regulars, and had watched many other teams drift in and out of the space. It had been an easy commute when they had all met - the five of them working at a long defunct coffee shop near Brockwell Park. Now they had scattered across the city, and the commute to the Park was long. 

They had never considered trying a more centrally located trivia night. Not when Michael had been granted a position teaching at Kings, not when Anika had made her debut in the art world and moved into her ritzy new apartment, not when Martin had opened his own business in Chelsea. This was simply where they played. 

“It’s the only conversation he’s ever initiated with me.” Martin laments. He knows that Jon is under no obligation to return his crush. He’s not even obligated to like Martin. The fact that Martin hadn’t been in a relationship in five years was not Jon’s problem, it was Martin’s problem. 

“Baby steps, yeah?” Michael gives another of those bland smiles and pushes his cup to the edge of the bar, signaling that he’s like another of the light and hoppy IPAs that he’s been imbibing all night. 

“But he also paid my rent.” Martin groans into his hands. “Or, his solicitor or lawyer or something paid the next year’s rent. And what’s that supposed to be? A faerie courting gift? If I accept I owe him a debt of his choosing?” 

“Yeah, that’s a bit weird, mate.” Michael, with his new beer in hand, twists back around on his stool to fix Martin with a long look. Michael has always been the most level headed of all of them. He’s the friend that the group goes to when they need advice on anything. 

“Exactly.” Martin stirs the dregs of his bombay and tonic, petulantly stabbing his straw through the lime wedge that sat at the bottom beneath the slurry of half melted ice. 

“Have you tried talking to him about it?” Michael asks, knowing full well that the answer is no. He runs a hand through his short shorn brown hair. “Like, really sat down with him to ask what was going on?” 

“I don’t want to make things weird.” Martin knows that’s ridiculous. Things are already weird. The exploding lightbulbs are weird. The rent situation is weird. Everything has been weird since Jon took over the store and started changing things at Parnassus. 

“It sounds like things are already pretty weird.” Michael counters, as though he’s reading Martin’s mind. “It’s not going to change unless you talk to him. Look, it’s not like you have to confess your love to him or anything. But asking him what’s going on with the rent situation is understandable. You’re a business owner and you need to know things like that.”

If Martin hadn’t been drinking, anxiety would be crawling its way up his throat. It would be pressing down his lungs like an immovable weight, taking away the ability to do anything besides count his breaths. But Martin is three G&T’s in, and he finds that flicking open his phone and composing a message is easy.  _ “Hey, can we talk about the rent?” _

He’s sent it before the action can catch up to him. 

Michael gives him an encouraging smile, lifting his glass in a silent toast. “I’m going to regret that in the morning.” Martin informs him. But at this moment, he doesn’t. He raises his glass and takes the last sip, ice clinking against the low walled rocks glass. 

* * *

Jon can hear his phone buzz. He knows in the detached and educational way in which a dreamer knows things, that it is vibrating. He knows he should answer it: perhaps it’s Peter finally ready to answer his questions. Perhaps it is someone else, texting in the middle of the night because of an emergency. Not many people text him, especially not so late.

But Jonathan Sims can’t move. His eyes are open and there is nothing but inky blackness surrounding them, darker than his bedroom has any right to be. He opens his mouth to hear the comforting sound of his own scream, and the darkness pours in - viscous in a way that darkness has no right to be. 

It presses him into the bed, the weight of it pinning his limbs down as his phone chirps again. He can no longer feel the press of his sheets against him, the crumpled cotton gather in bunches around his body. Now there is the smooth chill of the dark. He rests upon it for a moment before the surface tension breaks, and he plummets into nothingness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got bored and made a tumblr blog for this! You can follow me screaming at my writing over at [Parnassus and the Muse](https://parnassusandthemuse.tumblr.com). Smash that follow button for exclusive sneak peeks, fandom reblogs, and me facing the existential trauma of the writing schedule I put myself on.


	6. Chapter 6

October eighteenth dawns a bright and crisp fall day. Parnassus and The Muse are doing swift business, every seat in either store occupied. It is the perfect Friday to put on a favorite sweater and curl up with a favorite book, playing hooky from responsibilities. The fact that Martin is missing from the register, a post he always occupies during the Friday morning rush, is not lost on Jon. 

“Trivia night get too crazy?” Jon asks, his eyes skirting over the bags of coffee and coffee paraphernalia on display behind the deep shelves behind the bar. It must have taken some time to accumulate the collection, given the vintage or otherwise intricate nature of the pieces. 

Tim looks up from ringing in Jon’s order and glances to Sasha, who shrugs. “Not before I left, but he had stayed a bit later to talk with some of the others.” 

“You play trivia too?” Jon smothers the surprise that bit of information brings. He knew that Martin and Sasha were close in age, and if Martin wanted to fraternize with the employees outside of work, that was Martin’s business. 

“Yeah, it’s a group of us who have been playing for nearly a decade. We started back when some of us were working at this crappy cafe out near Brockwell.” She’s only half paying attention to what she’s saying, most of her attention focused on a line of drink tickets shoved under the rail of the espresso machine. As she chatters she pulls out four cups, three different types of milk, and two different steam pitchers. She drops a tea bag into one cup while her other hand cleans out the portafilter. 

“And it’s stayed the same ever since?” Jon has the sinking feeling that there was more significance to Martin’s casual invitation to play trivia than he had initially thought. 

“Yeah, we can’t have anyone too good join, it would ruin our vibe.” Sasha slips Jon’s tea across the counter, giving him a bland customer service smile. He accepts and takes a step back, putting space between himself and the dawning realization that he’s been an ass. 

“I’ll get out of your hair. It’s busy.” Jon is right. There’s a line nearly to the door and a half dozen customers milling about the floor, casting furtive looks to anyone who looks like they’ll be abandoning their chair soon. Neither Tim nor Sasha responds, and Jon slips over to Parnassus to make sure that Melanie and Elias aren’t drowning. 

Elias is at the register, doing his best to write a receipt with his dominant hand wrapped in gauze and a hazy film over hooded eyes. He’s supposed to be training Melanie, who’s shelving a stack of books onto one of the shelves that Jon had wrestled into place the previous night. 

There is still a collection of empty shelves clustered along the back wall of the store, flipped to face the wall so that no curious hands could pry into the. As Jon and Elias slowly priced their way through Gertrude’s collection, they moved the shelves onto the floor. The dark, heavy ones, the ones Jon remembered from his days as a student, had been set out first. They lent a richer, heavier feel than their light, particle board counterparts. They had originally arranged the shelves in strict rows. When it became obvious that customers didn’t like the library esque feeling that gave the store, Jon had broken the shelving up into clusters. Fiction on one wall, nonfiction across from it. Each category was further divided into respective subcategories, flagged by little paper signs in Jon’s spiky handwriting. 

Jon still wants the store to focus on rare and unusual books, but fiction moved more rapidly. Anyone might wander in and leave with a cheap novel, but cultivating both rare stock and selective buyers took time that Jon didn’t have while he focused on trying to pay his two employees. Even without the worry of rent looming overhead, there were still bills.

“Why don’t you go help Melanie?” Jon steps behind the counter, placing a hand on Elias’s shoulder. The line was beginning to grow as he struggled with each receipt, his handwriting messy and sprawling. “I’ll train her on register before we close tonight.” 

Elias looks relieved, scuttling up the spiral staircase to the boxes that the recently priced books were kept in. The customer, a teenager on her cellphone, shoots Jon an annoyed glare. She has her own pen in hand, and is scratching something on the back of a business card. 

“Can you make sure he gets this?” Her cheeks are red as she shoves the card across the counter, bundling up her purchases and sprinting from the store before Jon can respond. When Jon flips the card over there’s a name and a phone number, the “i” dotted with a fat heart. There isn’t time to think about the implications or appropriateness of whatever had transpired before the next customer drops his purchases on the counter. The crack rings through the room, several customers looking over to see what the sudden ruckus was about. 

“Getting ready for tax season?” Jon tries to joke as he picks up the copy of _Finance for Dummies._ The light hearted banter falls flat in the space between them, the man drumming his fingers on the counter. The smile drops from Jon’s lips as his always thin patience begins the stretch. “Alright then, your total is fifteen even.” The man wordlessly shoves a credit card at him, and it’s all Jon can do to not chuck the book at his head. 

* * *

Parnassus emptied out around dinner time, leaving a few stragglers camped on the couch in the back corner. Jon and Melanie are spending the last fifteen minutes before closing making sure that the shelves are in order. Once that time consuming bit of side work is out of the way, closing the store is the simple matter of counting the cash, doing the daily chore (sweeping on Friday), and showing Melanie where the light switches are. 

“I was hoping to talk to you.” Tim is hovering near the register, a bag slung over his shoulder. Jon takes a moment to look him over when he isn’t behind a counter and wearing a hat and apron. Tim is tall and broad and handsome, with a toothy smile that made you feel like you were sharing a joke. He carried himself with the easy air of a man perfectly comfortable in his own skin. 

“About?” Jon stands from where he’s shelving books, trying not to wince when his lower back twinges. Tim had never seen interested in the bookstore, and Jon isn’t sure what else Tim might be interested in. 

“You held a research position in Oxford, right?” Tim seems sure of himself, and Jon spares a moment to envy his confidence. 

“Of sorts. I was working under a professor in the anthropology and museum studies department. Most of my job was grading and teaching introductory level courses.” Jon’s indecisiveness had prevented him from picking a thesis topic for his doctorate, and Professor Fiarchild had thrown him a bone and kept him around doing clerical work until he could come to a decision. 

“How did you score that?” Tim leans forward, balanced on the toes of his canvas sneakers. 

That is an excellent question. Simon Fairchild had thought that Jon, despite his erratic sleep schedule and obsessive tendencies, had shown promise. _“You’ll always be welcome back.”_ Simon had told him when Jon informed him that he would be moving to the city to pursue running a bookstore. Simon always gave him that same warm smile, like he was the father that Jon had never known, and would be proud of him no matter what choices he made. 

“I was on good terms with a professor who thought I had promise.” Jon tilts his head to the side, racking his brain. At the party, Martin had lumped Tim, Elias, and himself together as “resident scholars.” Tim must be beating around the bush to try and get advice on how to make academia a career, and he doesn’t understand the irony of coming to Jon with questions. 

“That’s it? Get chummy with a professor and hope they let you work on a research project?” 

“Academia is a lot more networking than people let on.” At least, that’s what others had always told Jon. He tended to keep to himself, and that behavior had only compounded when he started seeing Peter. But Tim didn’t need to know that, he just needed to know what worked for others. 

“That’s helpful, thanks.” The frown that flickers around the corners of Tim’s mouth tell Jon that Tim is lying. It’s the same placid advice that he’s gotten from a dozen different people, and scoring a position through networking just isn’t panning out for him. 

“On a different note,” Jon steps to the counter to put down the heavy pile of books he’s cradling, “I was wondering where Martin is. Last night he texted me to ask about some intricacies with the rent, and I was hoping to talk to him about it. It’s unusual for him to be out on a Friday, isn’t it?” 

“He took the weekend to get out of the city. Visiting his mother or something.” Tim takes a step back, away from Jon and the conversation. Jon isn’t sorry to see him disengage. “He should be back by Monday.” 

“I won’t keep you any longer. I’m sure you’d like to go home.” The transition into dismissing Tim is abrupt, and Jon offers his best impersonation of a friendly smile to ease the awkwardness. He’s been told that the expression comes off as more of a grimace than a smile.

“Yeah, have a good night, Jon. Bye, Melanie.” Tim shouts the last farewell, looking around for a hint of Melanie’s red hair. It isn’t until he’s stepped out the door and Jon has locked up behind him that she pokes her head out of the historical fiction section. 

“He’s a cute one, isn’t he?” 

“Absolutely not. I have no interest in whatever love triangles the staff of this damnable place are getting involved in.” Jon shoots Melanie a withering glare, picking his pile of books back up. “And I didn’t hire you to gossip.” 

“Nope. You hired me to shelve books while Elias smokes in the bathroom.” She singsongs, ducking back into the fiction section. 

“Ms. King, I will not have any workplace gossip.” There is no bite to Jon’s words, nothing to indicate that he is doing anything more than giving a nod to proper workplace decorum. She laughs in return, and with a sight he turns his attention to the book at the top of the pile.

 _The Vietnam War_. It’s a thick, heavy book. A coffee table book printed on glossy paper with lots of pictures and historical narrative. It was a shelving conundrum. Should it go in history? Did it belong with the three art books that he had found stashed beneath the couch? Or did it deserve a different display? He sighs again and moves it to the bottom of the pile. He can worry about it tomorrow.

* * *

Jon spends another night trapped in his bed. He’s never suffered from sleep paralysis before, and has no clue why he’s had it two nights in a row. It isn’t pleasant to feel as though he’s suspended in molasses and slowly choking to death on the darkness that encompases him. Few things are more terrifying than the complete lack of agency that the darkness brings. Under normal circumstances it is possible to fight or flee a fear. But when pinned into place by the weight of his own limbs? There is nothing Jon can do except let the dark take its toll on him. 

Saturday is dim and grey, a stark contrast to the day before. When he makes his way downstairs, first to The Muse (as has become his ritual) for a cup of stiff tea, and the to Parnassus to see how Elias and Melanie are faring, it’s with a doue expression on his face and dark bags under his eyes. 

Melanie is standing at the register, pen and thermal slips laid out to process transactions for customers who do not currently exist. Elias is leaning against the other side of the counter, his gauze wrapped palm splayed with the fingers up. They haven’t seen Jon yet, and he slows and begins to move along the wall, inching towards the Nonfiction section. 

“Electrical surges would be a common sign of a haunting, yeah.” Melanie is saying, picking up a pen and fidgeting with the cap. “I’ve never heard of an entire room having all of its light bulbs blown out. Flickering lights would be way more common.” 

“The electricity has always been weird in the store. Gertrude once tried to put in a wifi router and it ended up catching fire.” Elias counters. Jon can’t see his face, doesn’t know if it’s lit with amusement or twisted with pain as his burnt hand twitches. Elias’s voice is carefully neutral, its posh edges puddling into each other. 

“I’d agree that it’s a bit extreme for an old building with bad wiring. But normally there would be other signs of a haunting as well. Cold spots, funky smells, objects moving around on their own.” Melanie is ticking things off on her fingers, her eyes unfocused as she looks to the left of Elias’s head. 

“The keys used to go missing all the time, before Gertrude sealed the trap door in the basement.” Elias offers. Jon’s brow wrinkles. He had been in the basement multiple times before Elias worked here, and Gertrude had never mentioned a trapdoor or a hidden room. There wouldn’t have been a reason for her to bring it up, but Jon feels as though he would have noticed a door leading to a sub basement. 

“And what, she always found them on the ground near the trap door?” Jon can hear Melanie roll her eyes. “And it stopped suddenly after the door got sealed over?” 

“Well, yes.” 

“That sounds like an old woman with loose pockets. I saw those smock dresses she used to wear; they were probably just falling out. I’m sure the keys were found in lots of different places, and she just happened to comment on finding them down there.” 

“But they’d go missing even when they got left in the drawer beneath the register.” Elias is insistent. Jon has had enough. He steps out of the shelving, clearing his throat loudly. 

Jon isn’t sure what he expected to happen when he appeared. Perhaps for Elias and Melanie to give him guilty, pleading looks like children caught in the cookie jar. Perhaps for them to clam up and get defensive. Perhaps, even, for an angry accusation about lurking behind corners and spying on them.

He didn’t expect Elias to scream, whirling around with a hand flying to his collar like a regency woman clutching her pearls. 

“I believe that when I hired you I asked you to not discuss this nonsense in the store.” His voice is sharp, reminiscent of when he was dealing with plagiarizing students. It’s easy to grab onto the anger, to tamp down the panic that someone might walk through the door and think that this is a place for _whack jobs_ and _conspiracy theorists_. For all those little jabs that the Lukas family had thrown his way. 

“We were just -” Melanie begins, standing a little straighter. Jon thinks he sees a flash of anger in her eyes, rising to meet his ire. 

“You were just doing the one thing I explicitly asked you not to do.” 

“There’s not a customer in this god forsaken store!” 

“Ms. King, if you can’t control your tongue, both in how you speak to me and what you are speaking about, I will have to ask you to leave for the day.” Jon grabs the anger, heavy and hot, and pulls it to the forefront. It’s easier to be angry than it is to be uncertain about his position as an employer. It’s easier to be angry than it is to be panicked because someone might think that he’s crazy for believing in ghosts. 

“That’s not necessary.” Jon can see her bite down on the inside of her cheek as she grits out the words. 

“Then I hope we’ve come to an understanding about what type of behavior is appropriate when you’re clocked in.” Jon crosses his arms and sets his jaw. This is his store, he can set the rules here and expect competency from his employees. 

“Yes, sir.” There’s venom in the last word, spat into the space between them. Elias takes a step away from the tension that is radiating between the two of them. 

“I’m just going to pop off to the restroom really quick. You two call up if you need anything.” Elias mutters, ducking his head. His good hand goes unconsciously to his cardigan pocket as he scurries towards the stairs. 

“If I smell anything, I’m making you shelve the heavy books.” Melanie calls up after him, something indecipherable to Jon spreading across her face. Perhaps it’s fondness; perhaps it’s exasperation. The tension in the room drains. Jon, without anymore anger to hold onto, finds the exhaustion of several nights of poor sleep weighing down his shoulders. 

“I’ll be back down in time for you and Elias to take lunch.” Jon mutters, a dull heat spreading across his cheeks. He swears he feels Melanie’s gaze lingers on him, a heavy and inscrutable weight; but when he looks her way she’s pointedly studying the title of a book at the register, her face stony. 

Despite the overcast, Jon makes a hasty exit to the street, drawing his light coat closer around his shoulders. Embarrassment sits hot and heavy in his gut. This isn’t the type of employer that he wants to be. This is the behavior that had made Simon look at him with that inscrutable look and inform him that _“there have been complaints from the students.”_

He wants to have the same easy camaraderie that Martin has with his employees. But the ease of interaction slips past his fingers every time he sticks his foot in his mouth. 

* * *

When Jon returns, it’s to an angry customer storming out of the store. “Don’t go in there,” she warns, casting a look of disgust over her shoulder. “There are bugs everywhere.” There hadn’t been bugs everywhere when Jon left and, short of an apocalyptic event, Jon can’t imagine that there are bugs everywhere now.

Once inside, the store is devoid of customers. The light is dim, hazy and filtered on this grey day. At first glance he doesn’t see Melanie or Elias. Nothing stirs amidst the stillness of the books. The back wall is blurry, and Jon pulls his glasses off to wipe away the condensation that must be keeping his eyes from focusing. 

His glasses are clean and dry. 

With a frown, Jon approaches the wall. His glasses are relatively new, and he hasn’t had problems focusing on anything else. He hasn’t hit his head, so a concussion is improbable. As he gets closer the titles of the books sharpen and become readable. The wall remains fuzzy and indistinct. It flickers like television static. He stops, five feet away, realization clawing at his chest. 

The wall is covered in a layer of ants. They writhe against each other, red and brown and black, never spilling onto the floor. They cover the window over the couch, casting the space in flickering darkness as small specks of light appear and disappear as the ants move. 

“I didn’t think I was that high.” Elias’s voice comes from behind Jon. He turns his head, slowly, to see Elias standing at the base of the stairs. Elias rubs his bloodshot eyes once, then twice. 

“Do you see that?” He asks Jon, shuffling towards the wall. He reaches out a tentative hand, his fingers hovering inches from the writhing mass of insects. 

“Don’t touch it!” Melanie’s voice is sharp as she sprints from the basement, an ancient can of Raid in her hands. Elias jerksback, off balance as he whirls around. His fingers must brush the wall, because he lets out a panicked yelp and begins to frantically beat at the fingers of his good hand. 

“I don’t think a can of Raid is going to help.” Jon says faintly. “I, ah, think I need to call an exterminator.” 

* * *

“Never seen anything like it.” The exterminator, a woman by the name of Jane Prentiss, tells him. She had arrived alone, in a beat up white van with a Praying Mantis painted on the side. “Definitely a polygynous colony for there to be so many of them. But they wouldn’t have appeared overnight; an infestation of this size must have been building for years.”

“Can you fix it?” Jon asks, pacing the front of the store. He is certain that there hadn’t been any ants in the store prior to this afternoon. He is certain that he’s a clean enough person that nothing he had done would have attracted a colony of ants to move in over the space of two hours. He is certain that absolutely nothing about this sudden infestation made any sense. Jonathan Sims is not a man who can simply accept when things don’t make sense. It is contrary to his inquisitive nature to simply accept something absurd. 

“Ants are tricky. Especially an infestation of this size. “Jane’s voice is rough and fuzzy. It worms into the ear, grating against the nerves of the listener. “We have a few options. I imagine that you don’t want to fumigate and spray with all the books about.” 

“Protecting the books is a priority, yes.” Jon crosses his arms, shuffling a few feet to the left. This conversation is something concrete he can latch onto. An action plan against the absurdity that was invading. He had sent Elias and Melanie home, Elias bemoaning the ant bites on his fingertips and how hard that was going to make it to type. 

“Then we can bait and wait for the worker ants to carry the poison back to the queen. You’d have to shut down for a few days, a week at most, while we wait for it to take effect.” The cafe as well, since there’s risk of the infestation spreading.” Jane scribbles a few things on a clipboard. “Can I talk to their owner, or are you in charge of the entire space?” 

“No, that’s Martin. He’s supposed to be back on Monday, but if I tell him there’s an emergency I’m sure he can make it back by morning.” Jon sighs, rubbing a hand over his face as the confusion about how tens of thousands of ants had made their way into the bookstore eats at him. Why wouldn’t the ants move from the back wall? Where did they come from? There isn’t enough data. 

“That would be best. I can come back in the morning and talk to the both of you about what to expect during the process.” Jon finds himself shuffling away from her, trying to escape the grating of her voice. It wore against his already high strung nerves. “And the tenant upstairs will need to find an alternate accommodation while this is going on. I’d want to seal off the apartment so the infestation can’t spread.” 

“That’s, um, that’s me. I live there,” Jon replies. “It shouldn’t be a problem.” 

“You rent?” When Jon nods she continues, “Your landlord should be responsible for the costs of the extermination, and putting you up until this is all sorted. This is a Magnus building, yeah? I’ve worked here before when Gertrude was around. I’ll send the bill his way, I know cost isn’t a problem with him.” 

“I’ll meet you in the morning to go over what Martin and I should expect, then.” Jon swallows, thoroughly uncomfortable with the way her teeth seem just a shade too large for her smile. 

“I’ll see you in the morning, Mr. Sims. Nine am sharp.” The bell rings as she exits the store, but this time the bell isn’t comforting. It sounds as though it’s mocking him, a reminder that anything can go wrong at any time. And with his luck, it probably will. 

* * *

Martin’s mother has been ignoring him for exactly three hours and fifteen minutes. The visit had gotten off to a solid start: she had appreciated the gifts he brought her, and was enjoying hearing about The Muse and its employees. Lunch had been served in the dining room, the grey mist outside too oppressive to allow for the meal to be eaten on the porch. They had shared lukewarm chicken, bland mashed potatoes, and canned string beans while she chattered merrily away about the latest nursing home scandal. It wasn’t until dessert, sugar free lime jello in little single serving cups with tin foil lids, that things had started to go poorly. 

“When are you going to bring a girl to visit me, Martin?” Edith Blackwood had asked, a frail hand wrapped awkwardly around the light, plastic spoon she had been provided. The cutlery set on Martin’s tray had been cheap metal, the handle pressed into a floral pattern. He had toyed with it, feeling the weight his mother’s frail muscles couldn’t manage. 

“I’m not.” There was a weariness to his words, exhaustion from fighting the same fight year after year. Depending on her mood she would either pretend the exchange had never happened, skip abruptly to a new subject, or lapse into silence. Today she had gone for the latter, and any attempt that Martin made to talk with her was met with nonanswers and noncommittal noises. Now they were sitting in awkward silence in her room, his mother’s frail body propped against a small pile of pillows on her hospital bed while Martin took the faded armchair across from her. 

It's a relief when his phone rings. 

_Jonathan Sims, Parnassus_ \- is splayed across the screen. For a second Martin’s heart skips an excited beat. He quickly schools the ridiculous hope that Jon is calling him in the middle of the work day to talk about anything other than work. It’s probably a question about something in the basement, or something around the shop. Or, even worse, Tom or Sasha or Not-Sasha had managed to hurt themselves. Or the espresso machine is broken. God forbid the damned thing go six months without being serviced. 

“Hello, Jon. Is everything okay?” Martin shoots a glance at his mother. He could have stepped out to the hallway to take the call, but there was a part of Martin that wanted his mother to recognize that he was important to someone. Or, in the very least, to think that he was important to someone. 

“I can catch the next train back.” Martin doesn’t really understand what Jon is trying to say - something panicked and rapid about an ant infestation and that the building is shutting down for a few days while an exterminator comes to deal with it. 

“No, it’s fine. I can be back by six if I catch the next train. Seven at the latest. Yes, I’ll see you soon.” 

“Leaving? I haven’t seen you in months.” Edith wails when he lowers the phone. She doesn’t even wait for him to hang up before starting in on him. Embarrassment flares, ice cold and tight, in his chest. 

“I have a work emergency. And it’s not like you’ve been talking to me anyways.” The sharp words taste bitter, an admission he doesn’t want to make coupled with self righteous anger. It’s easier to be angry than it is to be embarrassed. Martin stands, patting down his pockets to check for his wallet and keys. His weekend bag was still at the B&B, and he would need to leave immediately if he was going to be back in time to catch Jon. 

“You promised you would stay the weekend.” 

“And now I have to go somewhere where people actually want me around.” Martin’s retort is a razor on his tongue, cutting his own mouth to ribbons. “Look, I love you and I will see you in November. Please behave for the staff.” 

Martin doesn’t wait for his mother to tell him that she loves him too. He knew from experience that expressions of affection would not be forthcoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parnassus on Lawrence Street is looking for a third beta reader! Feel free to reach out to me on tumblr at [Parnassus and the Muse](https://parnassusandthemuse.tumblr.com) if you're interested in knowing what that entails.


	7. Chapter 7

The trip home is uneventful. The grey mists press against the windows of the nearly empty train car, and the loneliness of the grey landscape picks at Martin’s heart. He shares the steel train car with a couple sitting in a corner booth with their feet resting on the ugly upholstery of the chairs across from them. They’re young, early twenties at the oldest, and their hands are linked on top of the armrest. 

Her head is resting on his shoulder, a set of shared earbuds dangling from their ears. Her eyes are closed, and one of his hands is stroking her short hair. Martin can’t tell if she’s asleep or incredibly relaxed. Both of them seem content in their moment, in knowing and being known. Martin looks away, realizing that his intrusive gaze could be considered leering. 

Martin focuses, instead, on the book he had brought. It belonged to his housemate, and was one of the many books they owned. He had counted the books in the apartment in a fit of idle curiosity on a rainy day. They owned three hundred, most of which Martin had never touched. His roommate was prone to bringing home piles of charity shop books and piling them on any available surface until Martin put them away. He likes novels, had once said that the covers spoke to him when he walked passed, begging to be picked up.

One of those novels is in his hands, its brightly colored cover bearing text that promises a thrilling and gripping read. It does not speak to him except in those limited words. He toys with it, knowing that he will ultimately put it to the side and scroll through his phone. After a few minutes of studying the cover he does exactly that, pulling up Facebook. 

Facebook is a sharp reminder of the people who have cycled in and out of his life. People from highschool he was on teams with, classmates from his brief stint in college, baristas he had worked with as he climbed his way up the cafe ladder. They seemed to come together easily, forming fast bonds in a way that Martin had never understood. Except for the trivia team, most of whom he was certain just barely tolerated his presence, there was not a single person in his life who had been there when he opened The Muse two years ago.

Opening day was the closest that Martin had ever come to feeling like he had a strong group of friends. People had cycled in and out in a steady stream, complimenting the space and the menu and the decor. It had remained strong for a few weeks before the industry people began to come in less and less. 

Nowadays they see an “old friend of Martin’s” once a month at most, normally just someone who had been walking the river and wanted to stop in for a free coffee. The conversation is always stilted, and Martin is sure he sees glimmers of relief when they finally find a way to bow out. 

The pangs of loneliness are sharp, picking at the hole in his chest that longs to be filled. Each picture or post is a new little jab, a sharp pain that will eventually lead to catharsis when the pangs become so overwhelming he can’t tell where the loneliness ends and his heart begins. When the conductor announces his stop, two hours later, he’s relieved to have the permission to put his phone away. 

* * *

A quick subway trip later, and Martin is heading to Parnassus, his weekend bag slung over his shoulder. The streets are nearly empty as the grey mist turns into a drizzle. As he walks from the train station, he peeks into the windows of restaurants. They’re cast in warm yellow light, the tables grouped closely to maximize floor space in this trendy little strip. Some have table cloths, some have candles, a few have little pots of flowers in the center of the tables. The restaurants are void of life, and the few people who have ventured out are mostly couples, pressed together against the chill. 

The drizzle turns to rain, and by the time Martin is standing in front of Parnassus his hair is plastered to his forehead. He takes a moment to study Jon sitting at the little stool behind the register, a book in his hand and a frown on his face. The look can only be described as hunger; the same look that people who haven’t had breakfast get when studying the scones at Parnassus. Martin has never seen someone look at a book with so much intensity before. 

He spares a moment to imagine Jon looking at him with that same desire. 

He immediately feels a flush of shame. This is Jon, his work colleague - technically his landlord. Jon, who is all sharp angles and sharper words. Jon, who would never look at Martin with more than mild disinterest. 

Martin clears his throat, runs a hand through his sodden hair, and raps on the window. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting Jon’s reaction to be. It wasn’t for Jon to freeze, his shoulders stiffening and his knuckles turning white around the book. Martin raps again, giving a little wave through the window when Jon finally turns. 

The way that Jon scrambles off the stool and to the door, twisting the lock so he can throw it open, isn’t graceful. It’s like watching a foal take its first steps, all too long limbs and knobby knees. Jon fumbles for a long minute with the keys, and when he finally manages to open the door, a crack of thunder peals overhead. 

“Jesus, Martin. Come in.” Jon says, standing back so that Martin can cross the threshold without dripping water onto him or the copy of  _ Garden Entomology  _ that he’s holding. “Where’s your umbrella?”

“It isn’t forecasted to rain in Devon.” Martin sets down his soaked travel bag, glad he had elected to take a completely work free weekend and leave his laptop at home. He shivers as the chill of the bookstore ghosts over his soaked clothes. “What’s going on that I needed to come back so suddenly? Not that I, you know, mind really. It’s just a bit odd.” 

“There’s an ant infestation. The exterminator wants to close the store for a week.” It sounds so anticlimactic in the moment. Martin has traveled nearly three hours across the country to be told he had to come home because of a few bugs? After the panicked phone call, Martin was expecting something more urgent than ants. 

“Ants?” Martin queries, voice modulated. The storm beats against the window, a first jagged streak of lightning briefly illuminating the hollows of Jon’s cheekbones.

“No you don’t- It’s- just, come see. And leave your coat and shoes so you don’t drip too much water near the books.” Martin strips down to his thin shirt and jeans, watching Jon move through the space. He’s more confident, his motions more precise, as he navigates the shelving in the dark. There’s the whisper of his fingers as they slide over the shelves, and then a moment of silence before the lights flick on. 

Martin doesn’t notice anything strange at first, nor can he imagine why there might be a few ants in the bookstore. Ants in the coffee storage is believable if his staff hadn’t been cleaning up properly. But it didn’t make sense in Parnassus, and it certainly shouldn’t have been enough of an issue that Martin needed to return to the city. 

“It’s the back wall.” Jon is tense again, gesturing with a jerk of his chin. He doesn’t approach the wall, leaving Martin to take the short journey by himself.

“Oh.” Martin’s feet stutter to a stop. He has never seen such a mass of life before. A massive colony of ants are squirming atop each other, perfectly contained along the back wall of the store. 

“The exterminator has never seen anything like it. And I’ve been reading about it, ant infestations that is, and I haven’t found anything about spontaneously appearing colonies of this size. Especially not in urban settings.” Jon is pacing the front of the store. Martin can barely hear his footsteps over the crashing of the rain against the window. 

“Jon, slow down.” Martin steps away from the swirling horror and moves slowly towards the other man. He’s holding his hands up in front of him like a man approaching a panicked animal, his voice dropping into a soothing register. “You need to take a deep breath and start at the top.” 

“Yes.” Jon finally stops pacing, scrubbing his face with his hands. “I need to start over.” 

“Ants?” Martin prompts. 

“Yes. Today at lunch - I came in so Elias could take a break, you see. And there were ants. All over there.” Jon waves at the back wall, his words halting. “Melanie wanted to Raid them, but I called an exterminator. And the exterminator said that we had to close and that this entire thing is absurd.” 

“Is that what the exterminator said?” Martin asks. He can tell that Jon is panicked, has probably been sitting here all day trying to make rhyme or reason of what is going on. Martin has been there. He knows what it’s like to be alone and panicked with a problem that you can’t solve by yourself. A problem that you can’t solve at all. 

“Well, no.” Jon’s face contorts. “But I’m sure she was thinking it.” 

“What did she say?” Martin prompts. 

“That she would come back in the morning to bait and tell us what to expect.” 

“That sounds more like an exterminator.” Martin takes another slow step towards Jon. The ants don’t make any sense, Jon is right. He’s been running The Muse for two years, and except for a brief problem with a window being not quite air tight and letting in some moisture that led to mold, there had never been a pestilence problem. 

“I’m sorry. I think I’m not taking this well. It’s a huge surprise.” Jon is massaging the back of his neck now, circling his shoulders as though working out some tightness. Which, given the backless nature of the stool Jon had been sitting on, it was entirely possible there was. 

“It’s a bit shocking, yeah.” The conversation trails into an awkward pause, Martin casting around desperately for something more to say that wasn’t about the thousands of bugs currently swarming the wall. But, of course, words escape him only when he needs them most.

“I need to book a hotel room.” Jon says suddenly. “Jane, the exterminator, said the upstairs apartment needed to be cleared out.” 

“You don’t have anyone you could crash with?” Martin understood that. If he were thrown suddenly out onto the street for an unspecified period of time, it was unlikely there was a friend who could take him in. A day or two here and there might be possible, but nowhere stable to crash while everything else was falling apart around him. 

“Ah, no. Still new to the city and all. The closest person would be Peter, but he’s still out on a voyage.” The way Jon’s face twists at the name, like someone with a bad taste in their mouth, says everything that Martin needs to know about the likelihood of Jon reaching out to Peter for help.

“Peter?” Martin can’t help but ask. He has a suspicion, but has ended up in too many awkward scenarios by acting on assumptions. 

“My ex. He was here a month ago.” The mysterious ex; the wealthy looking older man with the nice car and clothing that looked expensive at a glance. The ex Jon had traveled to see a month ago. Martin still remembered the dour expression and closed off look Jon had for several days after the trip. 

“With the car. Yes, um, Elias mentioned that. It’s good that you two are on good terms.” The silence stretches again, and Martin has the sinking suspicion that Jon and Peter are not on good terms. “You can stay on my couch for a few days. I doubt my roommate, Gerry, would mind. And he still owes me.” 

“That is- the nicest thing that anyone has done for me in awhile. Thank you.” Relief spreads across Jon’s face, and butterflies flit through Martin’s stomach as that smile is directed at him. He gets to be the hero in this story.

“Well, it’s not as nice as willing you a bookstore, but I do my best.” Martin gives a weak laugh, high and just a little manic around the edges as the butterflies flap their wings harder.

“Yes, well. I’ll go pack a bag. If you wanted to come up, I could get you a towel.” Jon says. Martin is reminded, suddenly, that he is standing in the middle of a bookstore, dripping onto the rather nice walnut floors. The butterflies flit away, leaving embarrassment in their place. 

* * *

Martin has never seen the upstairs apartment before. While he and Gertrude were friendly, they were not close. He never had reason to be invited up. He’s not sure what he’s expecting when he walks through the door. Something with clean lines, piled high with books and research materials. Cool colors to match Jon’s wardrobe, and clean swept wooden floors. 

He’s right about the books. They’re everywhere, lining the entry and living room with a cacophony of color. But the space is more reminiscent of something Martin would expect from his grandmother’s house. The furniture is dated and ugly, the walls are covered in framed needlepoints and chotchkies. 

“I don’t think anything I have would fit you.” Jon says, his tone matter of fact. The idea that Martin could squeeze into something of Jon’s is ridiculous. Martin is large everywhere that Jon isn’t. Tall and broad and thick about the middle. It was dubious that one of Jon’s prim button fronts would even meet in the center of Martin’s chest. 

The bathroom that Jon gestures him to is a sudden respite from the overwhelming clutter, smooth subway tiles and matte black fixtures. The towels are white, rich and luxurious beneath his fingers in a way that is reminiscent of five star hotels. Drying off and redonning his sodden clothes is surprisingly relaxing in the calm space, and stepping back into the claustrophobic living room gives Martin whiplash. 

He sits gingerly on a couch that he is certain is older than both Jon and himself, perched on the edge. It’s an ugly plaid thing with a crocheted afghan thrown over the back. Jon has never struck Martin as an afghan person. The low coffee table is cluttered with books and papers, and a very nice looking laptop. On top of the laptop is a familiar pink teacup, a tea bag still sitting in a puddle at the bottom. The lid of the laptop is covered in a telltale smattering of brown rings.

Martin smiles and picks the teacup, inspecting it. The pattern had been somewhat controversial, Sasha and Tim insisting that it was too matronly and out of place with the decor in the shop. Martin liked that about the design, he appreciated the way the cups just didn’t quite match the otherwise dark decor in the cafe. 

“I’ve been meaning to bring that back to you.” Jon is standing in the entrance to the living room, hovering without crossing the threshold from the hallway. He’s holding a leather duffle bag, the caramel colored material luxurious. A simple, navy, Jansport backpack is in his other hand, the suede bottom close in color to the duffel. 

“You can keep it as long as you like. We have boxes of them in storage.” Martin places the tea cup back on the macbook. “Have you redecorated since you moved in?” The words burble out, landing awkwardly between them. Martin regrets them as soon as they’re said. 

“I, ah, no.” Jon fidgets, setting the duffel bag down. “I haven’t really thought about it with all of the work we’re doing downstairs.” 

“Well it’s not that it’s not a nice apartment! The living room is just very... yellow. And the bathroom was so nice, I was just wondering if there was a reason for the differences in decor.” Word vomit, the Martin Blackwell signature, keeps spewing. 

“I really just haven’t thought about it.” Jon’s posture shifts, defensive. Good going, Martin thinks to himself, you’ve managed to insult him yet again. It’s the oversteeped tea snafoozle all over. 

“It’s er, nice?” Martin tries lamely. 

“It isn’t.” Jon gives a weak laugh. “It’s a depressing apartment full of a dead woman’s things. Did you know that no next of kin ever contacted me to pick up any of her personal belongings?” 

“Maybe they came earlier?” Martin stands, brushing imaginary dust from his knees with a wet slap. 

Jon doesn’t have an answer to that, but a quick look around tells Martin that it’s unlikely. “Well, I’ll just grab my laptop, and then we can be off.” Jon picks up the duffel again, casting one more unstcruitiable glance around the living room as though he too is seeing it for the first time. “It really is a sad little place, isn’t it?” 

* * *

They take an uber to Martin’s apartment, neither wanting to navigate the tube. Martin is soaking wet and shivering, and Jon is carrying two unwieldy bags. It’s an unassuming apartment building, on the cusp of where Brixton stops being trendy. Jon remembers that Martin mentioned a roommate, undoubtedly the only way he could afford to live on even the outskirts of such a trendy strip. 

It’s an elevator building, and the coolness of the central air buffets them as they walk past a door man. He greets them with a polite nod before turning his attention to the computer screen in front of him. 

“It’s a nice building.” Jon starts awkwardly. It is a nice building. It’s a budget version of the building he and Peter had lived in when the three million dollar penthouse was being remodeled, and Jon knew that how much they had been paying in rent was out of the budget of Martin and this mysterious Gerry. 

“Ah thanks. Gerry and I moved here last year? It was after he signed his debut book deal. Lots of money was exchanging hands at that time.” Martin rubs the back of his neck, and Jon wonders if Martin thinks he needs to be embarrassed by ostentatious displays of wealth. That attitude is refreshing. 

“Book? Is he an author?” Jon wonders if he’s heard of whatever this Gerry has written. 

“Yeah, YA literature under a pseudonym. Apparently he got listed on all the important lists? He won’t tell me what he wrote.” Martin rubs his neck again, looking relieved when the elevator bings and the door opens to the sixth floor. 

“To the right. 6A.” Martin steps aside to let Jon lead the way, despite the fact that they’re going to Martin’s apartment. It’s only a moment longer before they step out of the chilly hallway and into the slightly warmer foyer. “I’ll just go change really fast. Make yourself at home?” 

It’s a new apartment, with a large and open floor plan. The granite counters and hardwood floors and sweeping white walls lent themselves to scandanavian design, and the architect had probably designed it with millennial minimalism in mind. The kitchen appliances are stainless steel, the cabinetry a cool grey. The bones of the space are reminiscent of the cold and clinical apartments that Jon and Peter had always lived in. 

It might have been overwhelming, might have made Jon’s stomach twist and his heart beat faster, had the person who decorated the space kept the architect’s intention in mind. But instead the decorator had used a warmer touch. The furniture was dark wood, many of the pieces looking as though they had been purchased in thrift stores. The couch had emerald and blush throw pillows on it, and a rich crocheted throw over one arm. There were plants everywhere, terracotta pots scattered about the room. Two of the walls were mostly full of tall windows, and someone had painted the plaster around the windows a cheerful seafoam green. 

“You have a lovely apartment.” Jon tells Martin once he hears the lumbering footsteps of the other man come down the long, thin hall. 

“Ah - thanks. That’s mostly Gerry. He buys the stuff and I find ways to make it all work.” Martin says. Jon still hasn’t turned, but he can clearly see Martin in his mind’s eye. His cheeks are pink, clashing with his hair. He’s put on something that looks like it would be soft to the touch, one of those flannel button front or cotton t-shirts he wears at The Muse. 

“Can I make you a cup of tea? You like it black with the bag left in.” Martin offers. Jon chuckles. Here they were, in Martin’s home while Martin was off the clock, and he was still offering to make Jon tea. 

“That would be nice.” Jon turns, and is pleased to see that Martin looks exactly the way he pictured he would. Jon takes a moment to process that pleasure. Surely it must be the joy of being right. He has no preference in the way that Martin decided to dress. 

“I’ve actually been hoping to talk to you.” Martin says, rummaging through the cupboards. The box he takes down is the Tea Pigs brand, the same that Jon remembers him having in the store. The two mugs are disappointingly white, stark and plain. 

“About the rent.” Jon guesses. 

“Yeah. That’s just a bit weird is all.” Martin’s kettle is glass, and Jon can clearly see the smooth expanse of the electric stove beneath it. “It’s a good weird! I’m certainly not protesting no rent on the shop for a year, it’s just you normally talk to people about that type of thing first.” 

The irony. Yes, Jon is perfectly aware that you normally consult other people who are involved in major financial decisions. Peter, on the other hand, had never gotten the memo. Frankly, he might not even consider paying the rent on the shop to be a major financial decision. It was just drops in the Lukas family bucket. 

“My ex, Peter, surprised me with it.” Jon fidgets under Martin’s shocked stare, the other man nearly dropping the box of tea temples. He feels kept, like Peter still has his fingers sunk into Jon’s life, even though Peter is thousands of miles away and on a boat in the middle of an ocean. 

“That’s very, er, generous of him. Good weird and all that.” Martin is once again pink, and Jon wants desperately to chalk it up to the warmth from the stove. 

“It’s bad weird.” Jon says, voice flat. 

“A bit creepy, perhaps.” Martin replies, the upbeat note in his voice wavering. Jon feels like an ass again. Martin is trying to keep things from being awkward, and Jon keeps dragging the conversation firmly into “awkward” territory. 

“Peter is an ass.” Jon sighs, sitting at one of the rattan stools at the island that divides the kitchen from the living space. “He’s - he’s not a good man.” The revelation of being able to say that strikes Jon in the chest. He has never before spoken ill of Peter. Peter had paid all the bills. He had funded their vacations. He had supported what he liked to refer to as “Jon’s peculiar little hobby” whenever there were expensive books to be bought, or estate sales that Jon wanted to travel to in pursuit of research materials. 

Speaking ill of Peter would have been a sign that Jon wasn’t grateful for all of the things Peter did. It wasn’t that Jon wasn’t appreciative for all the good that Peter had brought into his life, so much as it was that the bad that came with it was too draining. The endless pressure to be perfect, the isolation from what few friends Jon had, the snide remarks when an interest ventured too far from what Peter viewed as acceptable.

“Yeah, I saw his car. Definitely an asshole car.” Martin puts the tea down in front of Jon and gives him a smile. “There’s a lot of asses out there. You’ve got to be careful.” Something warm flickers in Jon’s chest, and he gives Martin a smile in return.

* * *

It is late, past midnight, when a familiar life creeps into the store. The darkness has been searching for its victim, creeping tendrils stretched to every corner of the building. But the life force, the man, pays no mind to eddies as it walks through the store, muttering something about dropping an item. The darkness does not care what the item is. Nor does it care that this man is not its normal victim. 

The darkness seeks the item out, scouring the floor until it can wrap around the heavy and cold weight of a foreign object. It is smooth to the touch, and the skittering it makes as the darkness drags it over the floor is almost inaudible. 

The man freezes, his eyes casting about in the darkness for the source of the noise. The item is louder as it tumbles down the stairs to the basement, each thump drawing the man closer. The darkness can feel the fear as it claws at the man’s throat, it reaches out its own dark tendril to entwine with the delicious panic in the man’s chest. 

The feet of the man move of their own volition, drawing him down the stairs after the little, cold object. The object is drawn, through boxes and bins, to the corner of the room. It snakes between them, going where the man can’t follow. He is determined, moving items aside in single-minded pursuit of his task. He does not notice that the darkness is thicker here; that he has walked into a cocoon of it. He feels the terror climb higher in his chest and moves the boxes in frantic chase. 

Finally, the man stands panting over an old stretch of wooden floor, a stretch of floor that he knows was not previously bare. A stretch of floor he knows that the spiteful woman had sealed away. The heavy brass ring of the trapdoor glints in the lightless room, a beacon to the man. His fingers find it, curl around it. It takes almost no effort from the man to raise the heavy wooden door. The darkness assists, lending the strength of panic and adrenaline. 

Beneath the door there is a yawning pit, and when the strength of the darkness leaves the man, he drops into its waiting jaws. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parnassus on Lawrence Street is still seeking a third beta reader! Feel free to reach out on tumblr or in the comments if you're interested.


	8. Chapter 8

Martin’s couch is not comfortable. It’s too deep, too plush. Even with the ergonomic memory foam pillow (which Martin had sheepishly explained was a gift that he couldn’t stand), Jon felt as though he was being swallowed whole by the cushions. Even then, it’s the best sleep he’s had in days, the nightmares kept at bay. He wakes up before his alarm, feeling refreshed and slightly sweaty from the press of the couch. 

It is still dark out, but after fumbling for his glasses the clock over the stove tells Jon that it’s 5:15. He got seven hours of sleep, more than he’s gotten in any one go since moving to London. The fall sun has not yet begun to peak over the horizon. The sky is pinned into place by distant stars, clear after yesterday’s storm. 

The world is calm and quiet out the window, and Jon’s chest loosens. The pressure that is always present does not fully dissipate, but it unclenches just enough that he can take a deep breath. He used to feel this way with Peter. At the beginning of their relationship, before moving in together and right when Jon had earned his masters, they used to climb into bed together so Jon could draw Peter’s arm over himself and feel the firm pressure grounding him into the mattress. The weight and heat of the other man had made him feel centered, like he could finally take a breath and drift off to sleep. 

He luxuriates for a moment in the feeling of being grounded, free of his racing thoughts, and then gets up to make a cup of tea. The kettle is on the stove, the mugs are drying on a dish rack, and it’s not hard to remember which cupboard Martin had pulled the tea bags from. The Tea Pigs brand really is growing on him, and he toys with the idea of asking Martin to sell him a box. 

As the water boils he tidies the living room, pulling out a change of clothes and his toiletries. A quick shower after his tea, and he can spend the next few hours until Martin is awake going over some of the notes on potential Leitner’s he had been working on compiling. There was a strong lead about an hour south of London in Chichester. A man named Herbert Knox, another book store owner, had made a few inquiries about getting a “unique artifact” on demonology and the occult appraised. He had not said outright that the book was a Leitner. But he wrote about it with the desperation to get it off his hands that frequently accompanied the mysterious library of Jurgen Leitner. 

* * *

When Martin emerges around six (convinced he will forever be an early riser because of his barista schedule), Jon is sitting next to a pile of neatly folded blankets, a cup of tea balanced precariously in his lap, and his head lolled forward. Asleep upright. He toys with the idea of waking the other man, but worries that doing so will result in a broken mug and a floor full of tea. Instead, he puts the kettle on to make his own cup and does his very best to avoid leering at the sleeping Jonathan Sims in his living room. 

But sneaking a glance every now and then couldn't hurt either of them. Jon’s face is relaxed. It’s still sharp, all bones and sunken cheeks, but the lines that were always etched into his forehead and around his mouth have smoothed. He looks closer to Martin’s age, despite the grey streaks that start at his right temple and work their way into his dark hair. He doesn’t look soft or sweet, but he does look calmer than Martin has ever seen him, the high-strung tension that keeps his shoulders near his ears gone. 

It’s another hour before Jon stirs, his hands thankfully tightening around the mug that is perched in his lap. Martin busies himself in the kitchen, breaking out eggs and onion and nearly wilted spinach. Something fast and hot, a rare luxury, given that Martin normally ran out the door after a quick shower in the mornings and ate a day old scone at work. 

“I hope you like eggs,” he says once Jon has started moving around. He doesn’t turn, tries not to give any indication that he has been watching Jon sleep. 

“Eggs are - nice,” Jon replies. Martin can hear the modulated note in Jon’s voice, swallows down the rising panic that eggs are not, in fact, nice. That Jon is just saying that to make Martin feel better about his attempt at breakfast. There is no reason to think that Jon doesn’t like eggs. Everyone likes eggs. 

Maybe Jon is vegan. 

“Are you vegan?” Martin blurts out before he remembers that Jon ate pizza with the rest of them at the disastrous staff party. Way to shove your foot in your mouth, Martin. 

“Ah- no.” The furrow has reappeared between Jon’s eyes, the corners of his mouth are once again tilted down. Martin has made a mistake. 

“Well, that’s great. Because eggs. You know?” Martin chuckles weakly and waves the half-empty carton as though making some grand point about breakfast. The point, had it ever existed, stutters between them and falls flat when Jon lifts one cool eyebrow and does not respond. 

“I’ll just - scramble.” Martin goes back to dicing the onion, and dearly wishes that the floor would swallow him whole. 

* * *

“What do you mean, the ants are gone?” Jon’s voice is ice as he stares down Jane Prentiss. She’s wearing a utility jumpsuit identical to the one she had worn the day before, holding the same plastic clipboard as she continues to make notes. With a flash of pink tongue, she sucks on her teeth, pen flashing. 

“No more ants on the wall. Can’t find any evidence that they were ever there. No signs, no nests, nothing.” Jane seems unfazed by Jon’s anger. Jon, for his part, knows he should be grateful. The entire mess has resolved itself in 24 hours, and no one had to lift a finger to deal with the issue. The store can reopen as soon as they can get people in to staff it. He and Martin could even open the doors and just hope for the best with a late start. 

“Is that common?” Martin asks tentatively. 

“Nope. But neither are infestations of that size.” Jane is nonplussed, and Jon wants to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she understands that something is very wrong here. “The consultation was free, and since I didn’t have to bait or spray, there won’t be a bill.” 

“How are you so calm about this?” Jon erupts. The confusion and anger that was swirling in his chest rushes forward in a slurry of words. Ants do not spontaneously appear, nor should they spontaneously disappear. Mass does not spring into and out of being at the whim of some chaotic, unknowable force. 

“Gertrude Robinson had zombie mice in ‘97, and ghost roaches in 2010. Both cleared up on their own, but those mice were the scariest thing I’ve ever encountered. Almost enough to make you a vegetarian.” Jane finally looks up from the clipboard, and Jon is struck with the feeling that she knows far more about the ants than she is willing to admit. 

It’s a sneaking paranoia that worms its way into his head, compounded by her nonchalant attitude. Jon can’t remember why he chose to call Prentiss Extermination - doesn’t remember looking her up in the phonebook or online. He must have seen a flyer that Gertrude had left somewhere, but he does not remember calling Jane. He must have, and it must have been lost in the hazy panic of the event. 

“The mice that get the parasites in their brain? I watched an Animal Planet special on them once,” Martin chimes in helpfully. Jon can clearly picture Martin, hunched over a laptop screen (there hadn’t been a television in his living room), on the edge of his seat as he watched parasite-riddled rats lose control to the bugs in their brain. 

“Yeah. Something like that.” Jane’s smile, stiff and false, falters for the first time. Jon has the suspicion that she is not referring to parasites. But the alternative is too ridiculous. Mice do not come back from the dead any more than massive ant colonies spontaneously appear and disappear. 

“Well, Ms. Prentiss, thank you for taking the time to come out and visit with us this morning. Even if there ended up being no work for you to do.” Jon’s mouth is pressed thin, his nerves worn. He wants to sit down and bang his head against the counter until all of this makes sense again. 

Jane nods, the pink of her tongue flashing again as she licks her teeth and replaces the pen across the top of the clipboard. “You can always call me if there are pest problems in the future.” She offers an unfamiliar business card, wilted around the edges. Her fingernails are yellow and cracked, dirt embedded in the nail beds. Jon takes it and gives his best impersonation of a smile. If the look of concern that fills Martin’s face once Jane has left is any indication, it isn’t a very good attempt. 

“This is good!” Martin tries, settling gingerly on the couch as though trying to forget it had played host to a frenzy of bugs. “We can open again tomorrow. And Sunday is always an off day at Parnassus, so you’re not missing out on any customers.” 

“There’s something not right here,” Jon tells Martin, pulling out his phone and flipping on the flashlight. He drops to his knees, searching along the baseboards for some indication of where the ants had gone. There is a tremor in his voice, the beam of the flashlight shaking in time to the pounding of his heart in his ears. 

“Jon, there’s nothing to be done.” Martin’s voice is smooth, calm. It’s steady in the midst of the whirlwind of uncertainty and confusion that races through Jon’s chest. Jon sets the phone down, the light shining up and blinding him. The world, already so hazy and indistinct, becomes harder to see. 

“There has to be an answer,” Jon replies. He’s casting about desperately, searching for something concrete to grab ahold of. 

“Sometimes life is just a bit strange.” Martin crosses over to kneel beside Jon, and Jon can’t help but to reach out and grab Martin’s forearms. His grip is tight, knuckles white against the grey plaid that Martin is wearing. 

“There’s never not an answer.” And, oh lord, he just used a double negative. If Fairchild could see him now, erratic and distraught, he would shake his head and say, in that fatherly tone,  _ What are we going to do with you, Jon? _

“Sometimes there just isn’t,” Martin repeats, prying one of Jon’s hands off his arm to grasp between his own hands. It’s so real, so solid, that Jon’s shoulders relax. This is something concrete, an eye amidst the whirling storm of his thoughts. 

“But where did they go?” Jon’s voice is distant, hazy and confused as the world continues to tug him in too many different directions. Too many questions, and far too few answers. 

“They’re gone. Isn’t that good enough?” Martin’s firm hands tug Jon to his feet, guiding him to the couch. The world feels distant and stretched too thin, like any of his stuttering footsteps might shatter the illusion of this reality and send him plummeting into nothing. “I’m going to make you a cup of tea.” Martin is not offering. He presses Jon down to the couch. Jon buckles under the firm pressure, leaning into the grounding. 

“Fine.” Jon is petulant as he comes back to himself, hiding his embarrassment behind a sullen facade. He was kneeling on the floor, on the verge of hyperventilating, over some ants? He needs to pull himself together. This was the sort of erratic behavior, the relentless inquisitiveness in the face of the improbable, that had kept him from being able to let go of minutia and focus on bigger pictures. 

It made him a thorough researcher who produced very little work. An expert on anything he applied himself to, but effectively useless outside of a few narrow interests. Something had to give, and that something had to be Jon. 

When Martin comes back with the tea, Jon has straightened. His breathing is normal. He still feels weak, exhausted from the sudden rush of adrenaline leaving his body, but he’s calm again. 

“We should get the staff here to discuss reopening tomorrow and preventative measures against pests.” Jon accepts the tea with a thin smile. “It’s Melanie and Elias’s day off, but I’m sure that they can make it in for this. I’ll look into common measures against ants and other pests, and you can follow up on if there have been any other reports of massive ant colonies in the area.” 

“Ah - right.” Martin looks a bit taken aback. “You sure you want to call them all here?” 

“Yes, we have to discuss appropriate countermeasures to be sure that nothing like this ever happens again.” Jon nods and takes a sip of the tea. A smile ghosts around the corners of his mouth when he sees the tea bag still sitting at the bottom. This situation is controllable, and everything will be fine. 

* * *

Tim and Sasha arrive together. He’s holding a pizza box, a smile firm on his face. She’s hiding behind a pair of oversized sunglasses, scowling into the greasy slice that she’s already begun. Messy, slept-in braids are piled on her head. Melanie arrives next, wearing uncharacteristic head-to-toe black and muttering into her email about a canceled video shoot for her youtube channel. 

“So, you might say it’s all gone buggy?” Tim tries, wagging his eyebrows at Martin. Melanie punches him in the shoulder, hard enough that Jon winces at the heavy sound of skin hitting skin. 

“I get that you didn’t see it, but that’s not funny,” Melanie informs him hotly. The blood has rushed to her cheeks, the pink clashing against her short red hair. 

“Sasha and Not-Sasha were working on Saturday! Not my fault I wasn’t on the schedule, I did open to close on Friday so Sasha could go to her rehearsal.” Tim rubs the spot beneath the puffer vest he’s wearing.” 

“Speaking of,” Sasha rummages around in her leather tote, brow furrowed until she produces a small envelope. “I got everybody tickets to the showing on the 27th. I figured it would be best since Parnassus is closed on Sundays anyway, and it would be easy to close The Muse down a little early.” 

Jon admires her confidence as she distributes the tickets. She’s sure that everyone will show up, and she’s sure that Martin will be willing to accommodate closing so that the staff can go out together for her show. As he surveys the little group he realizes that she’s correct. Everyone wants to go, and Martin has already pulled out his phone to take a picture of the ticket.

“I can make an Instagram post to say that we’ll be closed early.” Martin agrees. “And to tell people why. This is great, I know you’ve been working hard to snag a leading role for a long time.” 

Sasha has the good grace to blush, even through her otherwise pinched and hungover expression. Two tickets are left in her hands. She frowns, surveying everyone and counting off on her fingers. “Anyone heard from Elias or Sasha? Entirely like him to miss a staff meeting, but not like her.” 

“Not - er, Sasha Smith is at a church function. She can’t work Sundays and couldn’t make it in today,” Martin replies, checking his texts for confirmation. 

“I haven’t heard from Elias.” Jon offers, frowning at his phone. It was like Elias to be uncommunicative, but rather strange for him to not even send an emoji. 

“I saw him last night,” Tim says. All eyes turn to him, still somehow surprised despite the hints that had been dropped at the pizza party. 

“You told me you were busy last night.” Sasha's voice is sharp, accusatory. Jon feels a pang of pity for whatever trouble that Tim has gotten himself into between Elias and Sasha. 

“Not like that!” Tim throws his hands up in defense. “We grabbed a drink and talked about some publishers he’s querying for his novel. He actually left around eleven - said he had left his lighter here and needed to get it. Sentimental or expensive or something.” 

Jon knows what lighter that Tim is referring to - a heavy brass zippo etched with a spider web across one face. He’s pulled it out and lit it in the store more than once, more an idle fidget than an actual desire to set something on fire. They’d had a strict talk about it, Elias sulking like a high schooler caught smoking behind the school. 

“Well, we can’t sit around waiting for him if we don’t know he’s coming. If I can have everyone’s attention, we’re going to discuss preventative measures against pests in the store.” Jon stands, setting aside the greasy paper towel he’s been clutching. The others turn their attention to him, and Jon is reminded that he always hated giving lectures when working at Oxford. 

* * *

“Jonathan!” Jonah’s voice is as light and delighted as it ever is when he steps through the arch that connects Parnassus and The Muse on Monday morning. Jon is in a poor mood. Elias had failed to show up for his shift this morning, leaving Melanie frantically calling him only hours after he had managed to fall asleep on the creaky, single bed. At least the nightmares hadn’t come for him again, and what little sleep he had gotten had been smooth and dreamless. 

“Jonah.” Jon sighs, stepping away from the register. He would never know how Jonah Magnus managed to show up exclusively when Jon was alone in the shop - no employees or customers in sight, and a heavy ledger that needed balancing. Without rent looking on the horizon, it seemed like the store might turn a profit this month. 

“I’m always so thrilled to find you exactly where I left you.” Jonah stops equidistant from the arch, the counter, the bookshelves, and the front door. Another man might have looked awkward, perched in the middle of too much empty space. But Jonah looked like a performer - a circus ringmaster about to announce the next act. 

“I don’t go to too many places.” Jon’s reply is dry. It’s true. Trips on foot to the grocery store tended to be as far as Jon traveled these days, his entire world wrapped tightly into the bookstore. 

“It’s delightful all the same.” Jonah’s smile seems to grow in the face of Jon’s attitude. “You know, I wanted to let you know that I’ve been asking around with some professional connections of mine. Inquiring about Leitners on exorcisms and all for you. I left a list with a few potential leads beneath the register, did you happen to find it?”

“I - no.” Jon’s brow wrinkles. He doesn’t remember Jonah having been around at all since their last conversation, and has no idea when the other man could have spirited himself in to leave behind cryptic notes. But, lo and behold, there is a folded slip of paper right next to the fuzzy pink key fob. 

Jon pulls it out, smoothing the creases. The first thing that strikes him is how precise Jonah’s handwriting is. Crisp and clear, with smooth lines and elaborate twists at the ends of the looping letters. It looks more like a piece of art than a hastily jotted down list. At the top of the page is the lead that Jonathan had already found. Knox in Chichester. Kirsten Bowman is Salisbury. Richard Reed, with a telephone number but no address. 

“Seems like a good start for your ghost hunter,” Jonah explains, smiling to himself as though he were taking part in some great joke that Jon didn’t understand. Jon, for his part, does not find it funny. He can’t tell if Jonah is indulging what he thinks to be an eccentric client, or if he's poking fun at the staff's theory that the store was haunted. 

“Melanie, yes. She was here this morning.” Jon replies. “I hired her, actually.” 

“The Irish girl.” For the first time ever, Jonah Magnus’s smile wavers. “Yes, I saw her. She’s very - inquisitive.” 

“I think she was born in London.” Jon’s reply is flat. He racks his memory, trying to think of anything that Melanie could have done to earn the title “inquisitive” from Jonah. He knew that she had a burning need to root out answers; a desire he understood intimately. But Jonah had never been around for one of her pointed interrogations, and if he was willing to classify her as “Irish” based on red hair alone, he had never heard her talk.

“What makes you say she’s inquisitive?” Jon asks, leaning back on the counter. Something in the energy between Jonah and everything else warns Jon that he shouldn’t get too close. He’d risk ruining the symmetry that Jonah had created when he positioned himself in the center of the empty space.

“She has the air of it. I’m decent at picking that type of thing out.” Jonah winks, the edges of his mouth beginning to turn back up into his ever-present smile. There is something different about Jonah, in the way he seems more firmly rooted to the world around him than he has before. The way his cheeks have a touch of color that Jon had never realized was missing. 

“But I have to be off, Jonathan. Let me know if you ever follow up on those books.” Jonah says. He steps back through the arch into The Muse, his footsteps silent, leaving Jon folding and unfolding the thick piece of stationary. 

* * *

There is a message in Jon’s voicemail when he gets upstairs and checks his phone after locking up Parnassus. It’s a familiar number, even if it’s attached to a contact that was deleted in a fit of petty anger. Jon settles on the ugly couch, toying with the phone. He could delete the message without listening to it. There was no reason why he had to hear Peter’s voice worm its way back into his ear, honeyed arsenic waiting to sting. 

But that wasn’t the responsible thing to do, not with tens of thousands of dollars hovering over his head like the executioner’s axe. If Peter, proud and distant, could not behave like an adult while they navigated this separation, Jon would have to. 

_ “Hey Jon, it’s Peter. I was calling to let you know that Nathaniel passed your message along once I was back on solid ground. I’d love to meet and talk about any concerns you might have. Maybe I can drive up next Sunday and we can grab a drink? Anyway, let me know how you are.”  _

The message ends. Jon sits in his apartment, surrounded by a dead woman’s things, his phone clenched tight between his fingers. He thinks about the three million pound apartment and its sweeping views. He thinks about Martin’s seafoam green living room and dark wooden furniture. He thinks about the scramble they ate for breakfast, rich with butter and onion, as Martin tried his hardest to make small talk. He thinks about Martin, thick and sturdy, pressing him to sit on the couch until he was grounded. 

He thinks about what it could be like for Martin to press him more fully into the couch, his weight on Jon as their lips found each other. 

Jon looks around the little, yellow apartment, full of things that are not his, and to the pile of empty moving boxes waiting for weeks to be taken to the curb. He doesn’t have to live in a depressing place, full of things he hates. He had done that with Peter, and he knows that he deserves better. It’s like the bottle green juice glasses or the plates with their little red flowers. He should make this space his own, and fill it with things of his choosing. He does not have to be a guest in his own home. 

The first thing to get tossed into a box is that god awful cross-stitched cat. It’s freeing, the first step towards something that resembles independence. Once he’s begun it’s impossible to stop; tossing the delicate figurines and ugly framed pictures with little regard for whether or not they will shatter against each other. The records follow with their worn paper sleeves, the music taste of an old woman who was out of touch. Then the books, pulled off the shelves and piled into boxes to join the rest of the literature that was still waiting to be sorted and filed downstairs. There was no reason for his home to be an extension of the store. 

When he’s done in the living room, it’s three am. Exhaustion is setting in, his eyes and bones too heavy to continue. The boxes, four of knick knacks and three of books, are piled near the front door to be taken downstairs in the morning. It’s all the boxes Jon moved in with, and he’ll have to source more before the bedroom can be done. He sits on the couch, wondering how he’ll move it and all the bookshelves down the stairs. He isn’t a strong man. Perhaps Tim and Martin will help him, or he can Taskrabbit the aide. 

Jon falls asleep, slouched into the plaid couch. His sleep is thick and dreamless, settling across his mind like a rich blanket. 

* * *

It is cold. No one expects the dirt to be as cold as it is. Far from the sun, it is simply lifeless matter, its own weight the only thing that keeps it from running in small streams as gravity pushes it to the center of the earth. 

But now there was something new blocking its path. Something large and warm that tried to thrash against the weight of the dirt. Something that when it opened its mouth to scream, the earth could pour into new places. Into a mouth, up nostrils, filtered through the folds of cloth or the fine strands of hair that covered its body. 

The heaving of the thing - of the man - lessens as it stops trying to pull air into lungs that are filling with dirt. The lungs splutter, pushing forward a whimper that bubbles through the fine earth. The thrashing of the limbs slows as oxygen uptake stutters. The muscles grow weak. Perhaps the extremities turn blue; it is impossible to tell in the lightless crush. 

Eventually, the man lies almost still. The chest no longer rises and falls. The fingers no longer grasp at the fine dirt. The only movement is the flickering of his eyelids as they react to his dream filled sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to my beta readers who go over the piece with a fine toothed comb for me.
> 
> _Parnassus on Lawrence Street_ hit several really important milestones with Chapter Seven! It was the first chapter to get over 300 hits and 30 kudos. It also saw the most interaction in terms of bookmarks and subscriptions. I'm very grateful for everyone who reads, and especially thankful to the people who comment to tell me how much they enjoy the AU. You guys really help encourage me in my writing. 
> 
> All that said, I will be taking a break next week. I'm traveling back to Texas to take care of some family business, and because I only see my family every other year, I can't spend 3-5 hours a day writing. Be on the lookout for Chapter Nine to hit some time between 6.12 and 6.14!


	9. Chapter 9

On Tuesday, Jon wakes up to a call from Martin, informing him that Elias hasn’t shown up to open the store. It’s Melanie’s day off, so Jon has no option except to head to The Muse for a quick cup of tea before unlocking the doors. It’s an eleven hour slog from open to close, with a brief interruption around two when Martin pops over with a take out bag.

“I have a sandwich?” Martin is tentative. “I thought, since you can’t get away at all today, that you might like something to eat.” The earnestness in his expression melts the frigid retort that had come to Jon’s lips. He’s tired and cranky, but there’s no reason to take that out on Martin.

“Yes, thank you, Martin.” Jon sets down the stack of receipts he was working on filing under the appropriate dates in the expanding folder that was kept on the cluttered shelf beneath the register. It was busy work; something for his hands to do that kept customers from approaching him unless they were ready to check out. 

The middle aged mother with her faded hair had been waiting outside the door when he unlocked it. Her expression had flicked so quickly to disappointment when it was Jon who opened the blinds instead of Elias. Elias was the normal Tuesday morning opener.. She had wanted to know-  _ since that nice young man isn’t in and you’re the owner, aren’t you? _ -when he would be open to purchasing books again. The selection of science fiction was apparently growing thin, and her son was asking for new books. 

Jon wanted to ask her why she didn’t just get her son a library card. Instead, he smiled a thin smile and told her that they would start purchasing books when they were done sorting the dwindling collection that still resided in boxes on the balcony. This had appeased her, and she left with a copy of  _ Ender’s Shadow. _

“You don’t have any dietary restrictions, do you?” Martin blurts after the silence had stretched for a long moment, taffy pulled taught until it threatened to tear. Silence, which Jon had become so used to with Peter, which was cloying and comforting in its uniformity across situations. Silence, which Martin apparently can’t abide by. 

“No, no allergies or anything like that,” Jon replies. 

“That’s great. I did hummus and veg on a wrap, just in case you were a vegetarian. I know you’re not a vegan, you know? But not everybody always wants meat.” Martin is rambling again, the top of the brown paper sack twisted awkwardly in his hands. It’s endearing, especially when thrown in stark contrast with how grounding and firm that Martin can be when tensions are actually running high. 

“Thank you, Martin. I appreciate you grabbing me lunch.” Jon takes the paper sack, setting it aside. “I, ah, wanted to ask if you still had space for one more on your trivia team. It was brought to my attention that you’re all bad at trivia, so I might actually have a leg to stand on.” 

“Who told you - I, ah, yeah. Yeah, that’s great!” Martin’s face lights up, and Jon feels a flicker of warmth in his stomach. 

“It’s the 24th? If I haven’t gotten ahold of Elias by then I’ll need to make arrangements for the shop. Melanie can’t work late on Thursday.” Jon realizes as he checks the staff schedule that he kept in Google Calendars. “I’m getting worried about him, you know?” 

“It’s not like him to miss work without calling in.” Martin agrees. He hesitates, mouth opening and closing twice as though mustering up the courage to give some truth that he thinks Jon does not want to hear. Martin is saved by Tim poking his head through the arch, his usual smarmy expression replaced by one of confusion and concern. 

“I think an animal got into the sub-basement?” Tim says, his brow furrowed. Jon raises a surprised eyebrow. Elias and Melanie had spoken about a sub-basement during their conversation about ghosts and ghouls and Gertrude, but Elias had said that it was bricked up. 

“We’ll go take a look. Do you mind watching the register? Tell people that you’re cash only right now if anyone tries to check out.” Jon asks, stepping out from behind the counter. He looks forlornly at the sandwich before tucking it under the counter. He’ll get a chance to eat it soon. 

* * *

“There’s definitely something down there,” Martin says helpfully. The two men are standing in the basement, near to where the trap door is supposed to be. Jon tilts his head, straining his ears to hear the faint scratching that comes from beneath their feet. 

“A rodent of some sort?” Jon suggests, stomping on the floorboards to see if the skittering reacts. It stops, a timid animal frozen when faced with a potential predator. Jon lets out a breath that he didn’t know he had been holding. An animal is a problem that will fix itself. The worst that could happen is it dies beneath the floor and they deal with a strange smell for a week while it decays. 

“Sounds like it. Do you want to call Prentiss back? Maybe it’s one of those zombie rats,” Martin jokes. At least, Jon thinks it’s a joke. Without being able to see Martin’s face he can’t be sure. 

“I don’t think we need to bother Jane over a single mouse,” Jon recalls her knowing, yellow smile and the wet, pink flick of her tongue across her teeth. There is no need to invite Jane back over something so small. 

“I’ll go out and get some traps. I don’t want to risk pests in the coffee storage.” Martin’s voice is tense. Jon looks over, confused. Martin had been so calm about the ants. He’d been calm about the lights. What was so nerve wracking about one rodent in a sealed off sub-basement? 

“This stuff is expensive to replace,” Martin answers Jon’s internal query. “And some of it is irreplaceable, you know? Like beans that are down here aging, or limited runs, or tea blends that they don’t produce anymore.” 

“Or handles of gin.” Jon raises a cool eyebrow at Martin. Keeping his expression stern and straight isn’t hard. He just imagines that Martin was a particularly infuriating student, invading his office hours for the umpteenth time. Asking questions that Jon had answered during the lecture. Nodding off in the back row of the classroom. 

The flesh is weak, and Jon has been single for his longest stretch since undergraduate. The flesh became accustomed to such couplings, even if Jon only desired them in the physical sense. It’s not hard for the fantasy to take a sudden turn; Martin bent over the desk, the ringing of Jon’s hand against - Jon’s cheeks flare red. 

“I am sorry about that. I hadn’t thought that the party would get so out of hand,” Martin is quick to say. He’s suddenly bashful, and Jon realizes that Martin must have taken him seriously. Which is amusing only because the party hadn’t approached anything beginning to resemble “out of hand”. When he was younger, Jon had attended a few house parties hosted by fraternities or other organizations. The noise and the lights and the constant crush of people had been overwhelming. He had stopped going when one had genuinely gotten out of hand and they had the cops called on them. Running through the woods behind an old house, hearing the pounding of footsteps all around and not knowing which blurs were students and which were police had been terrifying. 

“No, that was a joke.” Jon replies quickly, trying to school the rush of color to his cheeks. The flesh is weak, and Martin is kind to him. There’s no shame in a little erotic fantasy here or there. 

“Ah - yeah. So, traps and bait? Just in case?” Martin responds, as though fearing what might develop if the silence were to stretch for too long between them. 

“That’s the plan. And I’ll see you for trivia on Thursday.” Jon says. He is going to make trivia happen, even if he has to close the bookstore early until Elias turns up or he hires someone new to replace him. Martin’s smile, tentative and soft, makes the resolution worth it as they head up the stairs and emerge into the dappled, mid-fall light.

* * *

“He was nice,” Michael tells Martin, comfortable in their usual seats at the bar. “A lot better at trivia than he had initially let on.” Martin winces at the understatement. Jon had been phenomenal at trivia. He showed very little interest in drinking with everyone around him but had answered question after question correctly. He’d shrugged off any praise, and when the team took first place he insisted that they enjoy the remainder of the bar tab without him, as he needed to get home to open the store in the morning. 

“He’s great,” Is the most eloquent reply that Martin can think of, fiddling with the stemmed glass that his gimlet came in. “I mean, yeah. You know what I mean.” It had been Michael, Martin, Sasha, and Jon. Gerry was touring for his next book right now, and Anika was touring potential winter homes closer to the equator. Given that Gerry was the only one of them who could normally be bothered to try on trivia nights, it had been a surprise to everyone when they won. 

“He’s cute. Not very talkative, but cute.” Michael slumps back into his barstool. Martin had lost track of what beer he was drinking tonight. It had changed with every pour. 

“I think he was just on his best behavior.” Martin has a vivid mental image of Jon at the staff party, three drinks in, excitedly explaining emulsifiers to everyone. Tim had looked like he wanted to shoot himself, but everyone else listened politely until Sasha suggested he grab another piece of pizza. 

“Is he coming again?” Michael asks. 

“You’d have to ask him.” Martin shrugs and really hopes that Jon plans to join them for trivia at least one more time. He’d like to see Jon a little looser. A drink or two in, when the color begins to rise in his cheeks and his eyes take on that excited, glassy shine. 

The Jon who had played trivia tonight had been intense, dark. Utterly focused on question after question. It had been fascinating to see him pull answers from the depths of his mind, even when Martin was convinced there was no way he could know what baseball team won the world series in 1957. 

“He seems nice,” Michael repeats, nudging his empty glass to the edge of the bar. “Have you asked him on a date yet?” 

“No.” Martin doesn’t have the emotional energy to pretend to act shocked or offended. “He’s busy getting out of a relationship with some shipping magnate.” If Martin ever really wanted to drive home the fact that his mother was right and he could never live up to the expectations of the people around him, he could compare himself to the wealthy man who continued to provide Jon with a fabulous and wealthy lifestyle. 

“Yikes. Smart and emotionally unavailable? Isn’t that your type?” Michael teases, winking at the bartender when he sets a totally different beer down in front of him. Martin hadn’t even seen him order, and is unsure how the bartender knows to keep switching things up on him. 

“Can we talk about anything else, please?” Martin stares forlornly at the lime circle floating at the bottom of the coupe he was drinking out of. It bumped against the edges, unable to escape its confinement.  _ Fitting _ , Martin can’t help but think in his moment of self-pity. 

“Sure. Are you tracking Manchester? They’re having a rough season.” Michael shifts topics easily, taking a sip of his beer. The topic is safe, even though Michael knows that Martin isn’t a sports person, and they fall into a perfectly pleasant and vapid conversation. 

* * *

By Sunday, Elias still has not appeared. Sasha’s face is twisted into an uncharacteristic frown as she shoves the extra ticket into Jon’s hand, asking him to hold onto it in case Elias shows up today. 

“Maybe we ought to call the police,” Melanie suggests once Sasha is gone. Melanie is sitting on the counter, her black Doc Martens hitting loudly as she swings her feet. It’s not a bad idea. It’s honestly a week overdue given the fact that none of them have seen Elias in eight days. 

“I would have thought his family would have taken care of that,” Jon replies, casting a wary glance to the piles of boxes up on the balcony. He had been hoping to open the balcony this week, but without Elias’s help, most progress on the small projects around the store had halted unless there was a rare moment the store was empty. 

Jon had never realized how many of the customers kept coming back for Elias and his book recommendations. He knew that Elias was well-read, as most people who set out to write novels are well-read, but the eclecticism of his knowledge and recommendations was becoming more and more obvious with every customer who came in asking after  _ “that nice boy who’s worked here for so long.” _

“I don’t think he talks to them much. Black sheep of the family, disappointment to his father, that type of thing.” Her feet slow, the staccato rhythm becoming softer. Jon is struck with how little he has bothered to learn about the people who work for him. 

“I think that since it’s waited a week it can wait one more day.” Jon picks his words carefully, trying to not sound callus. “I don’t want to take attention away from Sasha before we all go to her recital.” 

“She’s a big kid, I think she could take it.” Melanie pushes, her face dark. 

“She could, but it’s already been over a week. One more day isn’t going to hurt.”  _ If something bad has happened to him, it’s already happened.  _ Jon doesn’t say it, but it passes unspoken between them. She rolls her eyes, hopping off the counter. Her body language (something Jon has been learning to pick up on since leaving Peter, who only projected nonchalance through the slouch in his posture), is stiff and angry. She wants something to happen, something to end this waiting. 

“And if you had been responsible, they would have already been called.” Melanie is angry, looking for a fight. While Jon knows her words are untrue, they still sting. 

“I asked you to come in today to help me sort the books we couldn’t get to this week, not to fight about Elias.” Jon bites back the equally angry retort that wants to bubble forward. There’s nothing to be gained by fighting with her here and now. 

“The books would be sorted if Elias were here.” Her reply is sullen, a boiling pot turned down to simmer. 

“The books would be sorted if we hadn’t had a single customer all week.” Jon takes a deep breath, biting down a sharper retort. He’s not going to stoop to Melanie’s level. She’s often like this; sharp and argumentative. There was a Yelp review about “the rude, red-headed employee” that urged “the owner” to “reconsider her employment before she scares off all of the customers.” 

Jon had heard the baristas at The Muse laughing about it with Melanie and Elias, swapping jokes about how some people are overly entitled. Jon, who had been on the receiving end of a tongue lashing from Melanie, was of the opinion that the customer was correct in expecting her to be polite. It was a discussion that needed to be had when they were all in a better place. 

“I had thought you might appreciate extra hours, an easy task, and free lunch before we went to Sasha’s show. If I’m mistaken you’re welcome to clock out.” He sounds harsh in his own ears. Pointless posturing that had burned so many bridges that Professor Fairchild had worked hard to cultivate for him. 

“It’s fine.” Melanie doesn’t apologize, but she has the good grace to look abashed. “I think I’m a little tense with Elias missing.” 

“It’s - hard.” Jon contributes lamely. “I understand that the two of you were close and that this must be wearing on you.” 

“Yeah,” Melanie says. A long pause stretches between them, and Jon can tell that she expects him to offer some words of comfort. None are forthcoming. “Let’s just deal with the boxes upstairs. Then we can try to start on the stuff that Gertrude was keeping in storage in the basement.” 

* * *

Unpacking and pricing the boxes is always a slow-moving task. It gets slower when they have to rearrange the shelves. Thankfully, the balcony is lined with built-ins, the same style as the one behind the counter at The Muse. Jon finds himself missing Elias acutely. Elias at least had some knowledge of literature and the makings of an expensive book. Binding, edition, author, content, etc. Melanie had none of that knowledge, and quickly proved to be somewhat useless when dealing with the books that Elias and Jon had put to the side to be appraised and priced at a higher level. 

After two hours of answering the same questions repeatedly, he sent her to the basement to begin to unpack the boxes down there. Jon had to admit some curiosity in what hadn’t made the cut for Gertrude’s shop. The shelves had contained everything from dime novels to coveted first editions, and he can’t imagine anything was too cheap to be put on the shelves. 

“Hey, Jon?” Melanie’s voice travels up the stairs. His hands tighten around the book he’s holding, eye twitching as he hears his name called for what must be the twentieth time. 

“Yes, Melanie?” He tries and fails to keep the annoyance from seeping into his voice. 

“There’s something moaning down here? Like, a mummy from a B-rated movie moaning.” She sounds scared, apprehension tinges the edges of her voice. Jon sets the book down and takes a deep breath. The worn table is smooth beneath his hands. There’s a ring where someone probably set down a to-go cup from The Muse. 

“Is Tim playing a joke? This sounds like something he would think was funny.” His finger idly traces the circle. Tim’s sense of humor was often a little off. Planting “spooky noises” in the basement of the “haunted bookstore” sounds right up his alley. 

“I’d be a little concerned if Tim had a recording of something that sounds eerily like Elias moaning, but I guess that tracks.” Melanie has appeared at the top of the stairs, a grey layer of dust on her knees and hands. 

“There’s nothing down there, Melanie. I think whatever had crawled into the sub-basement either got out or died. We’ll know if it starts smelling.” He stands, crossing to the railing to look down at her. Melanie was a semi-professional ghost hunter, even if Gertrude had considered her harmless. For her to be spooked meant that she believed there was something genuinely scary going on in the basement. 

“I think you should come take a look.” The stubborn tilt to Melanie’s chin is familiar. 

“If this is a prank I’m going to be upset,” Jon says, heading to meet her at the ground level. His anger is an empty threat. She had never been afraid of upsetting anyone. 

“Just check it out. Please.” Closer, Jon can tell she’s genuinely frightened. Her pupils are blown and her hands are clenched into tight fists. 

Jon heads down into the basement. He’s three feet from the landing when he begins to hear the moaning that Melanie was talking about. It’s pitched in a way that sounds like Elias. It’s not moans of pleasure, which is what he thinks Melanie was joking about earlier. It sounds pained, wounded. A scared creature who can’t escape. 

It’s loudest in the back corner, beneath the boxes of other boxes and shipping materials. Jon is relatively certain that this was the corner that Elias was talking about when discussing Gertrude sealing off access to the sub-basement. 

The overhead light is dingy and yellow; the concrete floor and walls reflect it dully. Jon hesitates over the pile of boxes, and then very gingerly moves one. The moaning wavers. He moves a second box, convinced that he’s going to find a tape recorder or a bluetooth speaker nestled amid the packing paper and rolls of tape. No device is obvious, and when Jon begins to shake the boxes a faint scrabbling noise begins beneath his feet. 

Fear shoots through Jon, ice in his veins. The scratching could have been an animal, desperate to get out of the confinement of the sub-basement. But the moaning was distinctly human. There was a person trapped beneath his feet, and he had the horrible suspicion that he knew who the person was. 

“Melanie! Can you bring me the keys?” Jon calls up the stairs, moving the boxes faster. He can hear, faintly, Melanie moving around the ground level. 

“I can’t find them.” She calls down, just as Jon finishes moving the last box. The trap door, which Elias had sworn was sealed off, is a rich wood. It shines in the murky basement light, too clean and too well polished when compared to the clouds of dust that Jon had made moving things around. 

“They have a giant pink pompom on the ring. What do you mean you can’t find them?” Jon’s voice is sharp. He knows he saw them beneath the register recently, and since he has his own set he certainly hadn’t moved them. 

“I mean that they’re not where I left them yesterday.” A shadow falls over Jon as Melanie appears at the top of the stairs. “I assume that means you did something with them.” 

“No, I have my own keys.” Jon crouches down and jiggles the trapdoor, hoping that whatever had miraculously unsealed it had left it unlocked as well. It’s locked firmly, but when it rattles the scratching resumes with vigor. 

“But not to the trap door?” Melanie’s voice is tight with anger or panic. 

“No, I didn’t even know there was a trap door down here until I heard Elias mention it.” Jon sits back on his heels, looking around the basement for something that might help them. An idea clicks into place. “Melanie, for your YouTube channel, you’ve done some light B&E, right?” 

“Well, yeah. Comes with the ‘investigating spooky old things’ territory. Why?” Her footsteps are heavy down the stairs, and Jon turns to face her. Her hair, always unkempt, is a frazzled red halo around her head. Her jeans are covered in a layer of dust, and she keeps rubbing the wrist of her left hand. 

“Can you pick this lock?” Jon asks, voice level. 

“Probably. But I’d need my lockpicking set. It’s not like the movies where you can just do it with a bobby pin and a screwdriver.” Melanie replies, hovering over the trap door. Jon wouldn’t have thought it was possible, but she becomes even more tense. 

“And I don’t suppose you keep those in your purse?” 

“No, but I can run home,” Melanie says. Jon checks the time on his phone.

“You’d miss Sasha’s performance,” Jon replies, sighing. 

“And that’s really your priority right now? Not whatever the fuck is going on under our feet?” Melanie is outraged. Jon can understand where she’s coming from.

“I don’t want to ruin this for Sasha.” Even though Sasha tried to play it off, Tim had made it obvious that this role was the big break she had been waiting to get for years. It could change her life. A distracted performance could stunt Sasha’s career, perhaps irreparably. 

“Elias could be hurt and trapped in the sub-basement, and you’re worried about a dance recital?” Melanie hauls Jon up by the front of his shirt. She is not a large woman, but she is accustomed to physical labor. Jon is a slight man who sometimes forgets to eat. 

“It’s not Elias. No one could have survived being trapped in the sub-basement for a week.” Jon is certain of this. He has to be. There had to be something larger at play, some clue Jon is missing. Something that is obvious once Jon has taken a step back and looked at the situation objectively. He can do that once Sasha’s performance is over. “If there’s something down there, it’s because someone left something down there.”

“And who do you think that someone is?” Melanie gives Jon a shake, knocking his glasses askew, before pushing him backwards. 

“Who else has keys to the shop?” Jon straightens his shirt and glasses. There is a very small list of people who had keys to come and go as they please. Jon himself hadn’t unearthed the sub-basement to lock Elias in it. He was fairly certain that Martin hadn’t done it. There was only one other person Jon knows who has access to all the keys. Jon has a feeling that it won’t be hard to get in contact with him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, apologies for the late chapter. My routine has been knocked out of whack between traveling and NYC beginning to reopen. I am a Phase 3 worker (should my job choose to reopen), and I'm hoping to write 2-4 more chapters before I return to full time work.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who left their well wishes on the last chapter. Traveling during the pandemic was harrowing, but neither my partner nor I have shown any Covid19 symptoms. I look forward to hitting the first climax in the next few chapters, and hope everyone is staying safe in these trying times.


	10. Chapter 10

“That was phenomenal, Sasha.” Tim passes a platter of tabbouleh to his left. The restaurant that he had made their reservation at is in Fulham. It’s a lebanese place called Mandaloun, which is a cuisine he insists would lend itself to shared plates and good conversation. The six of them were sitting in a corner booth, with Sasha (still half in her makeup) seated at the head of the table. Tim had ordered in advance, and all the server has to do was make sure that drinks stayed full and food came to the table in a timely fashion. 

“Really, it was,” Martin chimes in, setting down his fork. He has somehow managed to finagle sitting next to Jon, sandwiched in the booth together. Every so often their arms brush. The restaurant is dim, decorated in rich, jewel-toned blues and greens. Each plate that hits the table is unique. Some are earthenware, some are decorated with gilt and twisting vines, some are bright reds and oranges that stand in stark contrast to the rest of the decor. 

Tim pours Jon another glass of whatever wine Tim had picked, something dry and white and with fine enough bubbles that they tickled Martin’s nose. Jon inspects it, holding it to the low light and squinting at the glass. 

“This has an excellent profile. Stone fruit, lemon, a healthy layer of salt on the back of the tongue,” Jon says after a moment of contemplation, startling the table into silence. Martin knows next to nothing about wine, and if he has to guess, he’d guess that Tim picked the bottle based on price tag alone. 

“Nothing but the best for Sasha.” Tim says after a beat. “It’s a celebration after all. To her career reaching new heights.” Tim raises the flute, tipping it towards Sasha before taking a sip. 

“You’re too much,” Sasha laughs, but she raises her glass in kind. “To many more early mornings at The Muse. Maybe I’ll finally get that promotion to opener.” 

“Slow down there. Can’t have you coming for my job,” Tim shoots back, leaning comfortably into his chair and throwing an arm around Melanie’s shoulders. “You’ve been picking up Elias’s slack and opening recently, haven’t you Melanie? Do you think just anyone is cut out for that type of work?” 

“I just hope Elias is okay. It’s not like him to just disappear,” Melanie replies, shrugging Tim’s arm off her shoulder. She’s staring at Jon, who is resolutely focusing on scraping his fork through a smear of hummus on his plate. 

“Yeah,” is Tim’s only response. Martin can’t help but think that Melanie is being selfish in this moment. Tim and Sasha have known Elias for far longer than she has, and have been much closer. She isn't the only person hurting from his sudden disappearance. 

“On a more cheerful note, there’s rumors that there were scouts in the audience tonight.” Sasha changes the subject gracefully. “If I performed well enough, I might get contacted for a few more positions.” 

The evening resumes its cheerful track, playful banter passing between everyone at the table. The wine keeps flowing, the food keeps coming, and it feels as though problems and worries are all in the distant future.

* * *

“I was thinking.” Martin and Jon are sitting at the bar, the others having trickled out after dessert was finished. The restaurant is emptying out, slowly but surely, as the lights turn lower and sections close as servers go home. The brass fixtures and dark wood of the bar are rich in the darkness, casting Martin’s skin with a yellow tint. It’s cozy and intimate, and Jon has had too much white wine. The restaurant’s gin cocktail - something with lemon and cardamom and a floral aftertaste - sits nearly untouched in front of Martin, while Jon opted to stick with sparkling white.

“You were thinking,” Jon repeats, passing the flute to his other hand as he turns to look more fully at Martin. He has the suspicion that one more drink is a ploy to get him to linger at the bar without the company of others.

“I was thinking that I’d like to kiss you.” Martin’s cheeks are red, his pupils blown. Jon doesn’t know if it’s from attraction or from liquor. He doesn’t know if the answering interest that stirs in his own chest is from loneliness or longing. 

“Oh,” is the most eloquent thing he thinks to say. 

“If that’s okay.” Martin says. He looks determined, tentative but certain in the course of action that he’s decided on. Martin bites his lip, and Jon sees the flash of straight white teeth against the pink of his mouth. Jon notices that his lips are the color of early summer strawberries - pale and pink. They stand in stark contrast to Peter’s thin and bloodless ones. 

“I think I would rather like for you to kiss me,” Jon replies. 

The first press of lips is scared, barely brushing across his. It’s the ghost of the intensity that Jon can see in Martin’s eyes. As Martin retreats, Jon presses forward, catching his mouth again. This time he can taste the gin of Martin’s cocktail, rich and herbaceous. Beneath that is the waxiness of chapstick, and a sweetness that Jon can’t name. 

“Oh.” Martin’s lips part slightly when they pull apart, the sound more an exhale than an exclamation. Then he laughs, the sound bright and delighted. It is so different from Peter’s mocking laughter, and Jon relishes in the noise. 

“I think I like kissing you,” Jon says, feeling bold. It might be the wine talking, but Jon hopes it’s not. 

“I think I like kissing you too. I’d like to do it again soon.” Martin smiles. Jon realizes, and is disappointed, that they can’t sit at the bar in this trendy restaurant and make out like college students at the local dive. 

“We’ll have to make a date of it,” Jon says. The warm flush of attraction spreads in his stomach, and he finds that he’s looking forward to going out with Martin soon. 

* * *

On Monday morning, Jon wakes up at 7:30 with a pounding behind his eyes, and his mouth feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton balls. He’s in a foul mood as he downs two aspirin and a glass of water, staring despondently between the paltry collection of tea in the cupboard and kettle on the stove. He can make his own tea this morning. He has the time, and he even has the little floral tea cup that belongs to The Muse. He can hide in his apartment and avoid confronting the embarrassment that smolders in him after his behavior last night. 

He has to go downstairs eventually. He has to unlock the door by nine, even if he doesn’t do any of the opening tasks. It’s his own money, he can deal with the register being over or under on his own time. Just because he has to go downstairs doesn’t mean he has to go to The Muse, or see Martin. Maybe Martin isn’t working today. He’s probably intelligent enough to not schedule himself to open after a late gathering. 

Jon makes his own tea, and settles on the new leather couch to drink it. He had kicked Gertrude’s plaid monstrosity to the curb (literally) a few days ago, after finding a replacement that seemed like it would be a quality option on amazon. He never received a flat packed sofa before - he hadn’t even known that sofas could come flat packed. Peter never received a piece of flat packed furniture, and Jon had bought secondhand options or received hand me downs before moving in with Peter. 

The sofa is comfortable enough. The light leather is described as “English Saddle” on amazon, and it balances the living room well. Perhaps, once Elias has been found or a new employee has been hired, he’ll take a day to repaint the living room and the bedroom. Freshen the cream paint to white so it flows better with the kitchen. Eventually, he’s going to replace the narrow single in the bedroom with a double, and move the desk to the living room. He’s read that it’s best to keep your work area and your sleeping area separate. 

There are a few journals pulled up on the MacBook, research he’s been half heartedly going through for inspiration. Nothing is interesting, and he gets distracted by the spreadsheets that he’s been using to track inventory and profit and expenses. As the last of the books hit the shelves, it’s easier to see what gaps need to be filled. Martin’s suggestion of putting in stationary and journals is looking more and more like a good one. 

An hour passes quickly, and before Jon is ready it’s time to go downstairs. He looks around and takes a steadying breath, trusting in Martin’s ability to be professional and discrete. Or to not be at work today. Jon’s ego can only take so much battering. 

* * *

There are flowers on the counter when Jon opens the shop. Tim has been watching curiously through the gate as Jon bustles around. Martin has been doing his best to look anywhere but through the gate. The Muse is, thankfully, busy enough on this mid fall day that Jon is afforded some relief from pressure of eyes upon him. It’s 9:01 when he unlocks the gate, offering Martin a stiff smile before retreating. This is messy. 

The flowers are beautiful, fall blossoms and foliage arranged in a florist’s vase. There’s even a stem of what looks to be miniature pumpkins, bold oragne in the arrangement. Jon moves them to the front window that looks in on the register, his smile losing its stiff edge. 

“Those are nice,” Melanie comments as she breezes in at eleven. Her shoulders are pulled back, the tilt of her jaw determined. There’s a handful of patrons amidst the shelves and the seating, and the corners of her mouth turn down as she surveys them. Jon can tell that she finds them inconvenient, in the way of some larger plan that she’s decided upon.

“I have the tools. We’ll deal with it at close.” Melanie’s words are cryptic, and Jon is glad that none of the patrons seem to notice. 

“Will we?” Jon asks, voice cool. He’s watching two tourists thumb through some of the more valuable books on the balcony. The woman seems interested in one and flips it over to check the price. Even from the distance he can tell that she blanches and quickly sets the book back on the shelf, grabbing the sleeve of her companion and leaning close to say something. 

“Yes, we will.” Melanie shrugs off her light denim jacket and bundles it up, setting it and her purse on one of the shelves beneath the register. “You might care more about flirting with Martin than you care about whatever is beneath the store, but I’m going to find out what’s going on down there.” 

“I still haven’t found the keys.” Jon had given the drawers and shelves around the register a thorough cleaning, and the bright pink pom pom had not materialized. 

“Well, that’s why I brought my tools.” Melanie’s eyes flick down to her purse and a sense of apprehension settles in Jon’s stomach, thick and heavy. “We’re doing this. Tonight. Before it can get any worse.” 

“If you insist, Ms. King. Who am I to deny you?” Jon’s mouth is dry, and his smile is tense around the edges. He fears whatever is waiting beneath Parnassus.

* * *

It’s still beneath the store. Once the lights are turned off and the customers are gone, there is no life in the building. Not even the air moves in the basement, denied the benefit of the fans that service the upper levels. It’s not hot - the stone room absorbs the chill that has permeated the fall air all day. It’s not damp, which is why books are safely stored here. It’s just still, as though the room itself is holding its breath. 

“Alright, you’re ready?” Melanie asks, hands on her hips as she toes at the padlock. She is wearing dark jeans and a sensible black hoodie, a camera set up in the corner of the room in case anything supernatural happens.

“Not really, no,” Jon answers honestly. He is not ready for whatever Melanie thinks that she’ll unearth beneath their feet. 

“Too bad.” Her smile is sharp, all teeth and no mirth as she pulls a slim leather case from her pocket. When she steps onto the trap door the scratching from the previous night begins again. It’s faint, muffled by the thick wood. Her shoulders loosen, perhaps comforted by the confirmation that whatever is lying beneath them is still alive. 

Watching her pick the lock is anticlimactic. After the drama of the previous day and the nerves that had twisted his stomach into knots since the last customer departed, he feels as though something more should happen than Melanie crouching down and fiddling with the surprisingly new-looking padlock. But that’s all she does, her face obscured by locks of red hair falling into her face. 

“It is 9:17, and we are about to open the locked trap door beneath Parnassus and The Muse.” Melanie announces as she checks her watch, her voice taking on a rich tone. Jon assumes she’s speaking for the benefit of the camera, as he certainly doesn’t care what time it is when they open the door. 

“Catch.” There’s a mischievous glint in her eye as she turns and tosses the padlock to Jon. In a remarkable feat of dexterity, he manages to catch it. It’s smooth beneath his fingers, cold in the chill room. It’s remarkably new for something that has been sealed away for years. It’s clean in the otherwise dusty room. 

“That’s not funny.” Jon snaps, mouth dry. For all her gravitas earlier, she seems intent on treating this like it is just another episode of her show.

“C’mon, we’re burning daylight,” is Melanie’s only response. “Help me open this.” She grabs the dull ring embedded in the wood, and heaves. The trap door groans, the swollen wood sticking until Jon lends a helping hand. Between the two of them they haul it open, the anticipation thick and heavy in his stomach. It is suddenly silent.

They are not greeted by the sight of Elias, his mouth full of dirt as he scratches weakly at the door. There are no rats or mice that they can see. Instead there’s a stone staircase, the steps clean and well lit. They’re older than the drywall in the main basement. Shadows flick at the bend in the staircase, indicating that there is something moving back and forth across a source of light just out of sight. 

Jon pockets the lock, willing to admit that he’s afraid it will find its way back onto the door if they left it. “Are you grabbing the camera?” he asks, looking into the pit beneath them. A warm breeze presses forward, coming from a tunnel that has no right to have moving air. 

“Now you’re gung-ho,” Melanie grumbles. “No, we’ll leave it set up here to monitor the entrance, and I’ll turn on my phone camera. A little more “found footage” than my usual, but I wasn’t expecting a damned passage beneath the store.”

“Let's see what’s down here.” Jon steps on the stairs and shivers as the warm air finds its way under his clothes to ghost against his skin. He’s curious - driven by the relentless thirst for knowledge that has always coursed just beneath his skin. 

* * *

The room they enter looks like something from a period play. The walls and floor are stone, a rich red rug dominating the middle of the room. The back wall is covered by a bookshelf, the dark and ornately carved wood different from the shelves that are upstairs. The books on them are bound in rich and well maintained leather, their titles stamped in gold. Jon can only read the titles written in english and latin, more than half are in languages he doesn’t know, and scripts he doesn’t recognize. 

A desk is pushed against the left wall, the same dark and ornately carved wood as the shelf. The loose pieces of paper stacked neatly on it are a rich cream. Even from fifteen feet away, Jon can tell the paper is thick and textured. More like drawing paper or watercolor board than modern note taking sheets. 

In the back, right corner there is a sturdy armchair. The brown leather looks well maintained, and the pillow propped in its seat is burgundy brocade with golden stitching. Next to it is a small, low table, upon which rests a lowball glass with amber liquid. The ice cube is half melted, and a thick ring of condensation is seeping into the edge of a folded piece of paper next to it. 

There is no obvious source for the warm yellow light. It seems to come from the walls, flickering like a fire despite there being no heat or obvious source. The shadows on the floor overlap each other, only reinforcing the idea that the light comes from multiple places. 

“This is it?” Melanie sounds annoyed as she steps into the room. She scans it slowly with her phone, walking closer to the book shelf to focus on some of the titles. Jon crosses to the armchair and picks up the glass, giving it a curious sniff. Scotch, rich and smokey, assaults his nostrils. There is no obvious place in the room that the drink or ice could have come from. 

The letter is written in a faint hand, as though the writer could barely muster the strength to press the pen to the paper. 

_ “Jonathan, _ ” it reads.  _ “Elias is safe, and in my care after a nasty encounter with a spirit attempting to possess him. I am afraid that the only way to free him from his confinement is contained in Henry Knox’s Leitner on Exorcisms and Possessions. Be quick about it, as your dallying has left him severely weakened and with little time left. Yours, etc, Jonah Magnus.  _

Jon turns it over, holding it to the light to see if there is some sort of secret message encoded on it. There isn’t. It doesn’t make much sense. He knows that Jonah had left him a list of Leitner’s to look into, saying he was passing it along for Jon’s “ghost hunting friend”. He knows that Elias was in the shop alone a week ago, and that’s when he went missing. He knows that Elias believes the shop is haunted. 

He doesn’t know why Jonah would have a secret study through a trap door that was previously sealed. He doesn’t know how Joanh and Elias ended up together. He doesn’t know where Jonah is, that the scotch still has an ice cube in it. He hadn’t come or gone from the shop all day, and there was nowhere down here that he could have gotten ice. 

“So a secret, underground study isn’t good enough for you?” Jon asks, sinking into the chair. Annoyance clouds his voice. “I’m sorry, let me go contact all of the spirits I know. Maybe they can put in a guest appearance for the sake of your YouTube hit count.” 

“That’s not what I’m saying. I just thought -” Melanie begins. 

“You thought what? That we were going to pick a lock, fight a ghost, and rescue Elias from being buried beneath the store?” The words are hot on Jon’s tongue, quick to cut. 

“What, and you were thinking something different?” Her retort is harsh. “Neither of us knew what to expect down here, and I don’t think either of us were expecting a collection of Leitners and an armchair.” 

“Of what?” Jon asks, the note crumbling in his grip. 

“The books, they’re mostly Leitners.” Melanie repeats. “Some stuff on demonology, the church, and the esoteric; but mostly Leitner’s.” 

“How do you know what a Leitner is?” Jon asks, suspicious. Melanie did not have a background in rare books or academia. Those are the only people Jon knows who are familiar with Jurgen’s library. 

“Ghost hunter? If something has a reputation for being spooky, I probably know about it.” Melanie asks, picking out a book and studying the cover. It’s purple, the cover decorated with orange and gold storm clouds. Lightning arcs from them, and if Jon’s eyes unfocus the bolts seem to dance off the cover. 

“He wants one more.” Jon says, smoothing the creases in the note. “That’s what he’s asking us for, a Leitner on exorcisms.” The pieces are clicking into place. Jonah had come across Elias snooping around the store. He had apprehended him, and is now holding him for ransom. The story about Elias suffering from a botched possession is because Jonah thought that Jon believes the stories about the haunting. 

“Don’t suppose he left the money for it.” Melanie snorts. “My understanding is these books don’t come cheap.”

“You’re the one who was upset that it didn’t seem like I was taking this seriously. Now you’re saying you want to walk away from all of this and just pretend like Elias went on vacation to the islands and never came back?” Jon struggles with whiplash. Melanie was just giving up? After the fighting, and the prickly comments, and the moral grandstanding, she’s going to let a book stand in the way of getting Elias back? 

“Do you have the money? Because I don’t. And I highly doubt anyone is going to cut a loan for a book because we’re claiming that our landlord has kidnapped a shop clerk and wants it as ransom.” Melanie crosses and uncrosses her arms. She’s right. No one reputable is going to hand Jon the type of money he needs on the promise that a struggling bookstore will be able to pay them back one day. 

“Doesn’t Elias come from money? Won’t his parents pay?” Jon asks, grasping at straws. There’s only one other person who Jon knows would foot the bill with no questions asked. But it comes at a very steep price. 

“Oh yeah, great idea. Call up his dad and tell him that Elias has been kidnapped and the only proof we have is a letter from our landlord. By the way, he wants a fancy book on exorcisms because your son is the victim of a botched possession.” Melanie throws the book against the wall. Its purple binding hits with an electric crack. “We sound crazy.” 

“I’ll take care of it. I can have the book by Wednesday. Thursday at the latest.” Jon purses his lips. “I can get the ransom, since it’s what Jonah wants before he’ll free Elias. I’ll need you to mind the shop all day tomorrow, and probably open on Wednesday.”

“Fine,” Melanie bites out. “Don’t do anything stupid or illegal, alright? I think Martin would have a heart attack if he suddenly had the stress of running both spaces.” 

“I won’t do anything illegal.” Jon gives Melanie a tired and tight smile. “Can’t promise it’s not stupid, but it isn’t illegal.” 

* * *

“Jonathan! It’s good to see you again.” Peter Lukas stands when the host brings Jon to the table. It’s quaint, and Jon can see the approving look in the host’s eye as he takes Jon’s coat and informs them that they’ll only need the one coat check ticket. The restaurant is exceptionally nice for a last minute lunch date. Every table is full, and Jon wonders how Peter swung the reservation on so short a notice.

“Peter.” Jon’s smile is thin. “You were very insistent that you wanted to meet.” He doesn’t know how to have this conversation. To tell Peter that Jon needs his money again, and is willing to do whatever it takes to get it. 

“Well, I’ve recently moved to the city and was hoping to reconnect with old friends. Surprisingly, London is a bit easier to run my business out of than Oxford was.” The implication there is that Jonathan should be grateful for the sacrifices that Peter made while they were together. Jon swallows the sharp retort that wants to push past his lips. 

“The Tundra is docked near London, isn’t she?” Jon asks instead, drawing on Peter’s favorite subject. After five years of dating, Jon can tell you very little about Peter’s interests, the Lukas family, or what exactly Peter does aboard his ship. He can, however, tell you all about the ship itself. It is the one thing that Peter has ever cared for in the world, Jon included. 

“You remember.” Peter smiles again, the expression never reaching his pale blue eyes. Jon has wondered if Peter loves the sea so much because the only other place you saw that color was far in the distance when the water touched the sky. It’s an unsettling color, almost the absence of color, lacking any depth or clarity. It reveals nothing to the viewer, and simultaneously stretches on for miles and stops immediately. 

“How could I forget? We were together for years,” Jon replies, swallowing his discomfort. Jon prefers Martin’s bright blue eyes. They have a life to them that Peter’s simply don’t.

“That’s true.” Peter’s hand slips across the table to take Jon’s. There is already wine on a trivet to their left, Peter’s glass poured. “I already ordered. I hope you enjoy the meal.” 

The meal is phenomenal, and exactly to Peter’s tastes. It isn’t what Jon would have ordered for himself, but Peter has never paid too much mind to that. They make polite small talk about Peter’s move, about his most recent voyage, about how much the Lukas family misses Jon. The entrees are almost through when Peter sets his steak knife to the side. 

“But I’ve talked and talked about myself. Tell me, how is the store?” Peter asks. Jon catches himself before he can snort. Peter has talked and answered questions, and somehow managed to reveal nothing to Jon that he didn’t already know. 

“The store is fine. I recently lined up a request for a rare and expensive book. I’ve tracked it down, and I think I could turn quite the profit if I can convince the owner to sell.” Jon is staring intently at his fish, slowly picking away a flake of halibut as his internal monologue screams for him to back peddle hard and fast. This is not the man he wants to tie himself to. 

“That’s good. How much will the book cost?” Peter’s tone is light, and he still does not look up from his steak. 

“Fifteen thousand.” Jon replies, setting his fork down. There’s no point in keeping up the pretense and continuing to mangle his food. Fifteen thousand is the number Knox had quoted him when Jon called to enquire this morning. It wasn’t an unreasonable sum for an artifact going to a private collector, but it was more money than Jon has ever had in his bank account. 

“That’s quite the sum. I wasn’t aware you were doing so well for yourself.” Peter’s eyebrow raises. He’s spent that much on vacations and electronics and renovations in their apartment. But it is a steep price for a book. 

“I’m not.” Jon leans back in his chair, and desperately wishes that he were anywhere but here. 

“Are you looking for a loan? I can recommend a good bank.” Peter finally looks up from his plate, mopping up the last bit of Au Poi sauce with a slice of roasted potato. He studies Jon’s face for a long moment, already knowing the answer to his own question.

“Jonathan, I’m not your piggy bank. And even if I was, that would imply that you had put that sort of investment into me in the first place.” Peter’s voice is light and pleasant. “And, if you recall, you broke up with me. Because I was miserable to date and only looking for glorified arm candy.” 

“I regret saying that,” Jon says. It’s true. He regrets losing his temper with Peter in that moment. And he really regrets the fact that his past fit of anger is standing between him and being able to save Elias. 

“So you think you can come crawling back to me because you want to secure yourself this big deal that will get your foot in the door in the rare book world? And after you said you wouldn't come crawling back to me for all the money in the world?” Peter’s voice is still calm, but his face has taken a predatory expression. He’s leaning forward, elbow on the table and wine glass in hand. “How do I know this isn’t a manipulative little ploy, and you won’t leave me as soon as you get your deal?” 

“I don’t know how to prove that to you.” Jon swallows. If only his life were so simple as the one Peter had just outlined. But it isn’t. So he’s here, begging his ex to take him back so that he can buy an absurdly expensive book to appease his landlord and reclaim his employee.

“I’ll think about it,” Peter replies, refilling Jon’s wine glass. “But you should finish your fish.” 

The server clears their plates after Jon chokes down every bite of halibut, and brings the single slice of coconut cake that Peter had ordered for dessert. The white cake is drizzled in a bright red sauce. Jon hates coconut. He picks up the fork and forces himself to choke down a few bites, even leaning forward obligingly when Peter feeds him a bite. It’s cloyingly sweet, the tartness of the raspberry barely dampening the richness of the cake.

At the coat check, they’re handed two coats and a silver rolling suitcase. Peter smiles, that sharp and predatory grin that had not left his face since Jon had revealed he needed help, and passes Jon the roller bag. 

“It’s the clothes you left. You’ll need them for the party we’re going to on Sunday.” Peter says as he pulls out his checkbook. “I’ll have Nathaniel write up a repayment contract for the fifteen thousand.”

“Thank you.” Jon takes the bag, his knuckles tight around the handle. “I really appreciate this second chance, Peter.” One of Peter’s hands, large and rough from his time at sea, tilts his chin up. It’s gentle, in sharp contrast to the glint in Peter’s eye. 

“Things will be different this time. I promise.” Peter says. His lips are rough and chapped against Jon’s, and the sharp pain when he nips Jon’s bottom lip is grounding. Jon does not doubt that things are going to be very different after this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this fic creeps back towards its regular posting schedule, I am pleased to announce that this chapter marks the halfway point! My city just delayed reopening indoor dining, so it seems as though I will get to focus on writing for at least another month.
> 
> Thanks as always to my three beta readers, one of whom just informed me that they will not and have not flagged every time I switch tenses within a paragraph. Which is, apparently, often. If you would like to apply for the role of Tense-Shift-Checker you can apply on [tumblr](https://parnassusandthemuse.tumblr.com).


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly shorter chapter, so it comes slightly earlier! Enjoy.

“I don’t think he liked them,” Martin laments, leaning on the counter as he and Tim reorganize the pastry case to make space for the pre-prepared sandwiches that they’re trying out. It’s just before noon, and Jon has not made an appearance in The Muse. He had moved the flowers to the window, which Martin thought was a positive sign. But Jon hadn't come over to talk to Martin about it yesterday, and today he was conspicuously missing from the shop. 

“He was probably just hungover and grouchy. I mean, he’s always kind of grouchy. But you know?” Tim is fiddling with a stack of rosemary lemon scones, trying to keep them from collapsing sideways into a stack of prosciutto and arugula sandwiches.

“That’s fair,” Martin mutters. He doesn’t want it to be such a fair and reasonable statement. He wants Jon to come over and flirt with Martin across the counter before inviting him out to lunch on their next day off together. The fall weather is so pleasant, maybe Martin would be able to talk him into a picnic. With Halloween coming up on Friday, there are all sorts of themed baked goods to be had. Maybe their picnic could even be Halloween themed. Or is that too immature? 

Martin is jolted from his musing by his cell phone ringing. A quick check reveals that it’s the care home. Hopefully, they’re calling because something good has happened, or his mother wants to see him after their last, disastrous visit together. He’d hate to find out that she’s getting booted again because of her inability to get along with the other patients, or her generally ornery nature. 

Edith Blackwood does not take to her disability well. She hates care homes because she’s generally one of the youngest people there, while also requiring help to do even the simplest of tasks. Martin tries his best to be understanding, but it’s incredibly hard to be understanding when a grown woman is getting in trouble for knocking her pudding cup onto the floor too many times. 

“Mr. Blackwood? It’s Dr. Farshaw, from Rolling Hills.” The voice on the other side of the line crackles with static. 

“I’m at work right now, can you call back?” Martin sighs. Dr. Farshaw has been incredibly communicative and helpful in dealing with Edith. And Martin does appreciate it. But right now, he doesn’t have the time or the emotional energy to deal with another pudding cup fiasco. 

“If you could step away, I’m afraid it’s rather important.” The doctor presses. Martin sighs and relents. 

“Tim, I’m stepping to the back. If you need help just knock.” Martin covers the receiver with his hand before heading down to the basement. Jon must be reorganizing, as the boxes on the other side of the room have been shifted around. 

“I’m free now, doctor.” Martin sighs, uncovering the phone. The lights buzz overhead as he flips them on, casting the room into clinical light. “What’s she done now?” 

“Mr. Blackwood, I’m sorry to inform you that your mother passed away unexpectedly overnight.” Dr. Farshaw says, his voice empathetic. 

“What?” Martin croaks. The walls of the basement suddenly seem too close. They press in on Martin, suffocating him. The light is too bright, the air too hot. The world is collapsing in on all sides, reduced to a room the size of a pinhead. 

Martin is completely cut off from everything as a thick haze descends on the room, pressing against him. Cocooning him in a thick embrace that he can’t find the energy to cut through. 

“I’m sorry to tell you this way, Mr. Blackwood. We’re going to need for you to come in to deal with some final matters.” Farshaw’s voice is distant and tinny through the phone. “You have to understand, it was very unexpected. She showed no warning signs going before bed last night.” 

“What- Did it - did she suffer?” Martin stutters through the question. As difficult as their relationship might be, his mother was the only family he had. His grandparents are dead, and his father had walked out when he was too young to remember more than a paternal warmth and a stiff smile. 

“We don’t believe so, no.” The doctor’s voice is calm, soothing. “What time should we expect you? I know it’s a bit of a trip for you.” 

“I - If I leave now I should be able to hit the 1:15 train. It should only be a few hours to get there.” Martin swallows, his tongue thick and heavy in a mouth stuffed with cotton. 

“Take your time. Is it better to come tomorrow? Perhaps sleeping on it will help,” Farshaw suggests. The idea of putting this off grates on Martin, and he shakes his head, forgetting that Farshaw can’t see him. 

“No, no, I’ll come today. I just need to grab a change of clothes.” Martin replies. 

“I’d recommend you bring a travelling companion. I understand this news is shocking,” Farshaw suggests. “We look forward to seeing you, Mr. Blackwood.”

“Thank you, doctor. You too.” Martin says before hanging up. He tries to think of who can make the journey with him. Gerry is still abroad, Jon didn’t even talk to him about the flowers or their kiss. Maybe Michael? It’s the middle of his workday. Maybe Sasha. She’s off today, and arguably one of his closest friends. They’ve known each other for over a decade. With her show over, she might have the time. 

Martin pulls up her number, hands trembling, and hits the dial button. “Sasha, hey, it’s Martin. I need your help. Something has happened.” 

* * *

Day off day-drinking is one of Sasha’s favorite ways to spend her days. She goes to a dance class in the morning, takes a quick studio shower, and meets anyone who’s available for brunch and a mimosa (or three). Today, it’s a few of the other dancers from the show that had just wrapped up. 

“Do you have any auditions coming up?” Alice asks. She’s a tall and willowy thing. Graceful and passionate, she’s not yet particularly skilled. She’s the type that is regularly cast in the chorus, but young enough that she has plenty of time to improve. 

“I try to take a little break between projects,” Sasha replies, swallowing a grimace. The truth is that she’s hoping for a scout or an agent to reach out to her in the next few weeks. It would be nice to have work come looking for her, and not the other way around. 

“I guess at your age that makes sense.” Alice replies, oblivious to the fact that what she said could be construed as offensive. Sasha isn’t able to hide her grimace this time. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound rude.” Alice tries to recover with all the social grace her twenty years on this earth has given her. 

“No, it’s a fair assessment. These old bones and all that.” Sasha forces a laugh, and the other three girls laugh along with her. The conversation takes a more pleasant turn. Sasha is able to talk them into splitting a plate of french toast as an appetizer (carbs are evil, after all, and apparently they’re all trying to cut back). There is subtle pressure to order something healthy as an entree, and Sasha gives the breakfast burger a sad glance before ordering a salad topped with a fried egg. 

“Egg whites?” The server asks, looking nervous after the extensive list of modifications that the other girls had made. The gist is that they wanted as few calories as possible, and were avoiding things like dairy, gluten, and added sugar. 

“No, an over-easy egg is fine.” Sasha smiles, adjusting her post-workout ponytail. “I’m a sucker for the yolk.” The server looks relieved and scurries off. 

“I read somewhere that eggs are only a complete protein if you have the yolk. It’s where all the amino acids are,” Alice chimes in with a glance to Sasha. Perhaps it’s her version of trying to apologize after calling Sasha old. 

“Really? I thought the cholesterol was bad for you.” A brunette named Tiffany chimes in. Sasha lets them debate the merits of whole eggs vs egg whites, and reminds herself that socializing like this is an important part of staying in the industry. You never know when one of these girls decides that dancing isn’t the life she wants, and becomes a casting director or a production manager. 

Sasha is relieved when her phone rings. It’s Martin. She knows he’s at the shop today. Maybe they need help? She can get so lucky. 

“I’ll be right back,” Sasha excuses herself from the table, heading out of the trendy spot to the bustling Chelsea street. She’s actually not far from The Muse, she could probably run there in about twelve minutes if Martin and Tim need her. 

“What’s up?” She greets, keeping her voice light and cheerful. 

“Sasha, hey, it’s Martin. I need your help. Something has happened.” Martin’s voice trembles on the other side of the line, and Sasha’s blood runs cold. Martin has never asked for help in the ten years she’s known him. 

“Yeah, anything,” Sasha is quick to respond. 

“I need for you to come with me to Devon. My mom just - she died and I don’t want to go alone.” Martin’s voice is fragile through the receiver. Poor, poor Martin. Sasha’s heart breaks for him. 

“Let me grab my coat. I can meet you at the shop in fifteen?” Sasha asks, already heading back inside. A quick confirmation from Martin, and she leaves forty on the table to cover her food and drinks. This certainly isn’t the excuse she wanted when she had wished for a reason to leave brunch. 

* * *

“Jonathan!” Jonah’s voice is sharp, relief tinging the edges of it. “I thought you wouldn’t make it in time. Quick, we need to go to Elias.” Jon has only just stepped through the doors to Parnassus, out of the fall chill, roller bag in hand. There hadn’t been time to drop it off after lunch with Peter. The hour and a half it took to get to Chichester had meant he had just enough time to retrieve the book from Knox and make it to the store before close. 

The store is empty, Melanie nowhere to be seen despite the fact the door was unlocked and it was still an hour before closing time. It was her second day trying to run the store on her own, perhaps she had needed to grab lunch? But it’s late for lunch, and she wouldn’t have left the door unlocked. Jonah Magnus is the one who steps out from amid the bookshelves to greet him. His ever-present smile doesn’t seem so friendly anymore. 

“Where is Melanie?” Jon asks, taking a step back. The glass door is smooth and cold beneath his lightweight, fall jacket. 

“She’s fine. I think she must have stepped out for a minute.” Jonah replies. He does not approach Jon, nor does he take any action that might be considered threatening. 

“Where is Melanie?” Jon repeats, his voice tight with frustration. Melanie would not have left the store unattended, and it was less likely that she would have left it under the watchful eyes of Jonah Magnus. 

“I don’t know. I suggested she leave, and she did.” Jonah’s voice takes a sharp turn. It’s reminiscent of a put upon teacher. “Now, please stop arguing with me. We need to save Elias.” 

There is something off about Jonah that Jon can’t put his finger on. He looks less real in some way, frayed around the edges. As the lights overhead begin to flicker, Jon swears he can see the bookshelves behind the other man, as though Jonah is not all there.

“Save him from what?” Jon asks. “A botched possession? The spooky ghost that’s haunting the bookstore? Come off it, Jonah, just admit you want the book to add to your personal collection.” 

“Jonathan, I promise I have not lied to you. Elias is in grave danger, and only reading from this book is going to save him,” Jonah replies. Overhead, a lightbulb shatters. “This is urgent. I fear that Elias does not have much time left.” 

“Then you’d better get talking. For example, why can’t a priest handle this? I thought they were experts on exorcisms?” Jon presses, taking a bold step forward. He will not be cowed in his own bookstore. If Jonah Magnus wants his help, then Jon deserves answers. 

“This isn’t the time,” Jonah replies. “You will regret each second you stall up here if we are unable to save Elias.” Damn him, Jonah is right. If Jon actually holds the key to saving Elias, and hesitating now damns him, Jon will never forgive himself. “You’ve come this far. Why give up because it seems hard to believe?” Jonah says, his voice slipping down an octave as the tension leaves his body. Jon feels like a mouse caught by a cat. He’s being played with and has no choice but to act like he’s consenting to be swatted around. “You’ve been doing so well. Why quit now?” 

“Take me to him. But I’m not making any promises about giving you the book if I think you’re full of it.” The words are ash on Jon’s tongue as another lightbulb explodes overhead. The ground beneath their feet begins to tremor, as though the floor is going to split open into a yawning pit.  _ Like Jonah, we’ll be swallowed whole.  _

“My office. I fear that we’re already too late.” Jonah says. Jon wants desperately to push Jonah about the impossibility of the office and its contents but instead swallows his doubt and heads into the basement. Jonah is right, he’s come this far and there is no point in turning back before he has seen Elias himself. 

* * *

The study is almost the same as the last time Jon saw it. The books in the bookshelves are bound in brightly colored leather. The armchair is still inviting, its deep cushion promising comfort. There is no glass of scotch on the low side table, no thick ring of condensation. The lush red area rug, once spread so carefully over the stone floor, is rolled to the side, and the floor is covered in chalk markings. Intricate circles and symbols that Jon doesn’t recognize are drawn carefully. In the center of all of it, carefully positioned so that not even a toe lies outside the large circle, lies Elias. 

Elias is pale. He’s wearing the same outfit that Jon saw him in the day he went missing: crisp grey, plaid pants with a pleat down the front, leather oxfords. His glasses are somehow miraculously on his face. His shirt is missing, leaving only the white undershirt. As Jon watches, relief breaking in his chest as a knot that he didn’t even realize existed loosens, Elias’s lips part into a soft moan. His fingers scrabble against the tile, like someone trying to dig their way out of a pit they have fallen into. 

“We don’t have much time. I need you to read from the book while I try to maintain the circle. It’s all that’s keeping the spirit away from him.” Jonah’s words run into each other, urgent and desperate. He steps into the other circle drawn on the floor. 

“What is going on here, Jonah?” Jon looks at the other man. Here beneath the store Jonah seems more real. His edges are solid, the lines of his clothes crisp and unwrinkled. Jon can even see the faint wrinkles around Jonah’s eyes, crows feet webbing to the outer edges of his face. 

“This is why we couldn’t call a priest,” Jonah replies, the same urgency that is in his voice making his mannerisms tight as he gestures to the chalk on the floor. The walls around them rumble again, and Elias gives a small whimper. 

“Jonathan, you’ve trusted me this far. If you read from the book and it doesn’t work, either we will all be dead, or you’ll be able to take Elias to whatever professional, medical or otherwise, that you wish to,” Jonah says. Jon has to admit that Jonah is right. They’ve come this far, and (if Jonah is right) not seeing the task to completion jeopardizes Elias’s life. 

“How do I know you’re not lying to me?” Jon asks. None of this makes sense. He’s just supposed to trust the man holding Elias for ransom that this isn’t a ransom, it’s a desperate attempt to save Elias’s life? And Jonah couldn’t have said anything about it earlier in the week, before their straights had become so dire?

“I understand that it looks suspicious, but every second we waste jeopardizes Elias’s life. I can answer any questions as soon as we’re done,” Jonah presses. Jon’s will gives way. 

“What do I need to read?” Jon asks. 

“The first chapter is the one we need. I understand you know some Latin, and the language the book is written in is akin to it. You should be able to read it, even if it doesn’t necessarily make sense to you.” Jonah says. He takes a pouch from his pocket, old and well-oiled leather. It’s a foreign gesture, something that should be innocuous but comes across as wrong. Jon realizes that this is the first time he has ever seen Jonah touch something. 

“I’ll perform the material and somatic components of the ritual. You just need to read.” Jonah says. Jon wants so desperately to ask how Jonah knows what the other components of this ritual are. He wants to ask how Jonah knew that the first chapter of the book is on exorcisms. He wants to ask so many questions, but the floor rumbles beneath his feet, knocking over the jar of pens on the desk. 

Jon cracks the book open. Jonah is right, he understands a few of the words, but most of it is gibberish to him. Jonah smiles reassuringly at him, and Jon’s stomach knots back up. The words are halting at first as he stumbles through the strange language. But by the second paragraph, he feels as though he has his feet under him, and by the third it seems as though something else has taken control of his vocal cords.

It reads with a strong and clear voice. The words echo around the chamber as the floor rumbles and the light becomes almost too bright to bear. But he can’t shield his eyes from the glow as he reads frantically, no longer stumbling over the strange syllables. He can’t pry his eyes from the pages to watch Jonah. He can’t look to Elias, laid out on the floor and silent. He can only read. 

He does not know how long it takes him to read the chapter that Jonah set him to. About six pages in, the rumbling stops. The lights begin to dim. By page twelve, there is barely enough light to read by. By page seventeen, the end, the rush of blood in his ears has quieted, and the lights have returned to normal. 

No longer compelled to read, he throws the book away from him, his voice hoarse from misuse. He rubs his eyes, falling to his knees as his heart pounds in his chest. 

“That was very good, Jon,” Elias says. Jon looks up and sees Elias standing over him. Except Elias has never stood so straight. His shoulders have never been pulled back so firmly. And Elias’s eyes, muddy brown with flecks of gold near the pupil, are gone. In their place are the piercing green eyes that Jon last saw staring imploringly from the face of Jonah Magnus. 

“Jonah?” Jon asks, his voice rough in his ears. 

“No, Jon. You must call me Elias.” One of Elias’s hands slips down to cup his face. Jon can feel the calluses on his fingers from paging through books. 

“What happened?” Jon asks, struggling to put the pieces together. 

“I told you. Elias was the victim of a botched possession. He was dangerously close to death, and we put it all to rights.” Elias’s voice has never been so smug. 

“You told me we were going to save him.” Jon’s voice rings foolishly in his own ears. He shouldn’t have trusted Jonah. He knew better than to trust Jonah. Every instinct told him not to trust Jonah. And he did it anyway. 

“We did. We saved him from both a lifetime of foolishly squandering the potential that his family has given him and from a slow and painful death as his life seeped out of him down here.” Elias crouches down to be level with the kneeling Jon. “You performed admirably. Truly, I could not have done this without your help.” 

“You lied to me.” Jon wrenches away from the other man. 

“I never told you a lie. I simply let you believe what was most comfortable to you.” Elias grabs Jon’s chin this time, the gesture harsh. “You can’t blame me for the path you have taken, Jonathan. You read from the book, you bartered with Lukas, you ran away from your troubles in Oxford instead of confronting them head on. Your choices are what resulted in you being here.” 

Elias stares into his eyes for a long moment, until Jon finally lets his head dip. A mocking smile, so foreign on Elias’s face, spreads slowly. He stands and takes the book from where it fell besides Jon when he dropped to his knees. Elias ponders the cover for a moment before crossing to the bookshelves and sliding it into an available space. 

“Why?” Jon asks. If he can have nothing else, he can at least understand to what end he has been used. 

“Perhaps, one day, I’ll tell you. If you wish to follow my footsteps into arcane study, my story is a good one to learn from,” Elias replies, turning from the bookshelf. “But for now, I believe you are tired. And in the morning you will have employees who want answers.” Elias is right. Weariness has settled thick over Jon, an oppressive blanket. 

“In the morning, you will wake on the couch in your store, and you will remember everything.” Elias’s voice slips into his ear as darkness clouds his vision. It’s distant, at the end of a long tunnel that has neither beginning nor end. And then there is nothing but darkness and silence. 


	12. Chapter 12

The staff has been talking about the New Years Eve party since Jon first suggested that they could have it at Peter Lukas’s new apartment. He has space for all of them, and sweeping views of the city. They will be able to watch the fireworks from the finished roof, the view from the highrise uninterrupted by other buildings. Even Elias, who is only working one morning a week since his brush with death after falling down the stairs into the sub-basement, is going to be there. 

The rumor mill churns out a new story about Peter Lukas every week. At first, Jon was around less, busy helping Peter settle into the city. Then he was around more, working constantly as the holiday season reached a frantic crescendo. Sasha James, on break from school, has been working shifts at both locations. She isn’t the only new face at Parnassus. One of the police officers who lives across the street, Daisy Tonner, had been in a shootout. Her motor control is shot in her dominant hand. Bored and on leave from the force, she has taken a job at Parnassus to help fill the empty time around her physical therapy appointments. 

The world turns on. It did not stop because Edith Blackwood died and Martin was busy planning her funeral. It did not stop when he came back and found out that Jon has gotten back with his rich and mysterious ex. It didn’t stop when Elias applied and was accepted into grad school, leaving behind a bitter and fuming Tim who was watching his own dreams crumble to dust around him. 

Time marches on. It does not care about the personal tragedies or triumphs that exist within it. Martin Blackwood marches with it, alone and adrift in a story that has cast him as the unwilling protagonist. 

* * *

“Jonathan.” Peter’s voice is light. Jon doesn’t look up from his laptop, where he’s researching recipes and batched drinks that he can put out for the New Years party. Peter suggested hiring a caterer, and Jon had said no. He still remembers the welcome party. It feels like September, when they boxed all the books and cleaned the store and drank prosecco mixed with too much gin and lemon, was a lifetime ago. 

“Jonathan.” Peter takes the phone from Jon’s hands. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.” Jon sighs and looks up into the weathered face and pale eyes of Peter Lukas. Jon’s fingers twitch, wanting to snatch his phone back and tell the other man to never take something from his hands again. Instead he swallows. 

“Yes, Peter?” Jon asks. Normally, Peter is content to sit in silence until they either go to bed, or Jon goes home. During the holidays, he had a good excuse for wanting to be near the store. Now, with that excuse drying up, Peter is becoming more insistent that they need to spend more time together. 

“I want to go on vacation in January,” Peter replies. “I’m thinking the islands, or somewhere else warm.” The suggestion is innocuous and innocent. A week or two abroad during the slow season is a perfectly reasonable expectation for Peter to have of his partner of five years. They’ve vacationed together before, and getting out of the snow and wet of the city would be lovely.

“Students will be coming back in January. It got busy in September, so I’m expecting it to be busy then,” Jon deflects. He doesn’t want to go on vacation with Peter. He doesn’t even want to sit silently on the couch next to Peter. He wants to go home, to the apartment above the bookstore, and pour over his business expenses and the hourly schedule until his eyes are dry and he falls asleep on the comfortable leather couch. 

“February, then,” Peter counters. “No new students, no holidays. Just the two of us somewhere sunny.” 

“I really can’t plan for what will be going on at the shop in February.” Jon does his best to not fidget beneath Peter’s gaze as he struggles to spin more excuses for why he can’t go on vacation with his boyfriend. He just doesn’t want to.

“The second week of February is six weeks away. I’m sure you can plan appropriately for the shop.” Peter says, his tone definitive. “I’ll book us tickets for the trip, and I’ll make you an appointment with a tailor. You’ve lost weight since the last time we went to the tropics.” 

Jon stiffens, not sure if the comment is an observation or a subtle jab. He’s been busy with the holiday rush at the store, and skipping a meal if he was in the middle of something and not particularly hungry anyway just made sense. And Martin doesn’t seem interested in bringing him sandwiches when he’s overwhelmed or overworked anymore. 

Peter has always preferred Jon a little heavier than he tends to be. The older man likes to joke that he wants something more to grab, accompanying the verbal jab with a physical pinch. While Jon can acknowledge that he’s slight, he doesn’t think that mocking him is necessary. 

“Fine.” Jon holds his hand out for his phone, unable to argue with Peter any longer. When it’s placed pedantically back in his hand, he grips it tight, fingers clenched around the rubber case like he’s worried that Peter will try to take it again. “I need to get going. Thank you for having me.”

“Is it something I said? I thought you were spending the night,” Peter asks, his tone making it clear he’s unconcerned with whatever slight Jon has perceived. The phone is cold and hard in Jon’s hand, and he takes a steadying breath before he loses it again, this time by throwing it at the other man’s head. 

“I have work in the morning, and it’s getting late. Tomorrow is the Friday after Christmas, and it’s going to be a mess at the store,” Jon replies, standing. Peter’s apartment isn’t decorated in any way that would indicate a major holiday has just passed. They hadn’t hosted this holiday season, instead spending the last day of Hanukkah at Moorland House, Peter’s family home. They had lit the candles and read the shabbat, and traveled home early the next day. The other Lukas’s had done the same, leaving Nathaniel alone with his wife and children. No one had ever explained to Jon the rituals surrounding the holiday, but after some light research into it, he is fairly certain the dour and quiet observance that the Lukas’s have is not normal.

Nathaniel had stopped Jon on the way out the door, pinning him into place with the faded imitation of a smile that all the Lukas’s had.  _ “We’re so glad you’ve come home, Jon,” _ he had said, pressing a small, neatly wrapped box into Jon’s hands. In five years, this was the first time Jon had seen a Lukas give a present. If they exchanged holiday or birthday gifts once alone, Jon had never seen a trace of the practice. There were never any brightly colored boxes beneath the intricate menorah that stood in the Moorland House foyer, not that Jon is sure that is where presents would be left if there were presents to give. 

Peter has never given Jon a present, preferring to mark special occasions with dinner out. If he couldn’t be there, he would leave his credit card and a note telling Jon to do something nice for himself. The box sits unopened in the apartment above Parnassus, hidden in the bedside table. Peter hasn’t asked if Jon has opened it, and Jon has not volunteered the information. 

“Your first day open since Christmas,” Peter says. The statement does nothing to further the conversation, so Jon just gives a wan smile. 

“I’ll send you the grocery list for the party. I’m sure your assistant can handle it?” Jon asks. Peter leans down to give Jon a kiss. His hand brushes the hair back from Jon’s forehead, the gesture possessive and intimate.

“I’ll call you a car,” Peter replies. It still is not a reply to anything Jon has said. 

* * *

“I’m sorry, we’re out of scones,” Martin says for the tenth time. The woman leaning over the pastry display hums, completely oblivious to the rapidly growing line behind her. The cafe is packed, every seat taken as shoppers flood the street for the excellent after Christmas Sales. It’s the first day they’ve been open since Christmas Eve, and the staff is in high spirits. All the staff, that is, except Martin, who has been in a foul mood since the end of October. 

“Will you be making more?” The woman asks, straightening. Martin finds himself irrationally angry with the way she tucks a long strand of blonde hair behind her ear. Who is she, that she thinks she can monopolize his time like this? 

“No, miss. We don’t bake on the premises.” Martin snaps. Where does she see room for a kitchen in a cafe nestled in a bookstore? “If you don’t know what you’re getting, I’m going to have to ask you to step to the side.” 

“Do you have anything else you’d recommend?” She asks instead, taking a long look up at the menu board. 

“I’ll help the next guest.” Martin raises his voice to be heard over the ruckus in the cafe. The woman splutters, and the man behind her looks tentatively between the two before stepping forward. He’s short and thick about the middle, burdened by several shopping bags. 

“Just a - uh - black coffee, please?” He asks, fumbling to retrieve his wallet from his pocket without putting down any of the bags, as the woman who wants a scone stalks from the store, muttering about going to Starbucks. 

“Hey, maybe I can take over here? My wrist is starting to hurt on bar.” There is a hand on his elbow, and the smell of Tim’s woody cologne in his nose. Even though he isn’t looking at Tim, Martin knows that Tim flashes the customer his winning smile by the way the man relaxes ever so slightly. And that just makes Martin angrier. 

Martin could tell Tim to get back to his position, to trust his boss to know what’s best in the store that Martin owns. But the customer smiles tentatively at Tim, and something in Martin breaks. 

“That’s fine,” Martin replies, scuttling to the espresso machine. The tickets are lined up neatly, despite the utter mess of the bar itself. Splatters of milk and splotches of caramel syrup litter the workspace, coupled with a few shreds of cardboard from Tim ripping open a new box of black tea. It’s a mess, but the entire store is a mess, overrun with people milling between Parnassus and The Muse. 

After a decade of working in cafes and tea shops and coffee shops, it’s easy for Martin to fill the tickets. The work is rote, entirely muscle memory with the exception of a ticket here or there that requires some modification. Oat milk, decaf, extra  _ extra _ caramel. They click out of the printer, the sharp noise almost inaudible against the hubbub of the store. Martin lines them up and calls them out, grateful that no one takes the wrong drink. He doesn’t think his fraying nerves could manage remaking a drink because of someone else’s stupidity. 

By seven, the rush has died down, leaving a few weary-looking shoppers nursing cups of stiff tea or black coffee. Martin has been able to clean the bar, already compiling a mental checklist of what needs to be restocked. There is no more line, and Tim has stepped off to use the restroom when a familiar voice coughs. 

“Yes?” Martin looks up from his crouched position where he’s counting the milks in the low boy.

“Hey, Martin. Can I get a quad iced espresso and a double latte?” Melanie asks, looking weary as she leans on the counter. She tucks a strand of short, red hair behind her ear. 

“Yeah. Jon’s in, then?” Martin can tell he fails at sounding nonchalant as he steps over to the bar by the way Melanie winces slightly. 

“His order is pretty damning, yeah,” Melanie replies, fidgeting. Martin has never seen Melanie fidget before. He hadn’t thought she was capable of being uncomfortable without slipping directly into anger. Martin, in turn, whacks the portafilter against the trash with a little too much force. 

“He could come over here and order it himself,” Martin shoots back, knowing he’s being irrational. It makes sense that only one of the two of them would come over. But Jon hasn’t been in The Muse while Martin was there since the end of October. Tim and the Sashas dutifully report that Jon comes in on Martin’s days off, and a few times they’ve seen his mysterious man drop him off outside the doors. 

“He could, yeah. But he didn’t. He’s on register and sent me instead,” Melanie says. She rubs her neck, looking like she would rather be anywhere but here. Martin doesn’t blame her. Jon has never sent someone to get a drink for him before, and he imagines that Jon must be desperate for the caffeine hit if he’s finally caved. 

Martin could refuse to make the drink unless Jon came over here and ordered it himself. It would feel good, feed into the self-righteous anger that bubbles beneath his collarbone. But he can also be honest enough with himself to know that he does not want to see Jonathan Sims. Martin wants to be mad at him, and seeing him might break the will Martin has mustered to be mad. 

Instead, he makes the two drinks and passes them to Melanie with a thin smile. There is no art in the top of her latte. “Have a good night, Melanie.” Martin’s smile is thin. 

“You too.” She doesn't smile back as she grabs the white paper to-go cups and scuttles through the arch to Parnassus. 

* * *

Peter’s apartment is clinical. White walls, stainless steel appliances, greyscale furniture. There is no art on the walls, no rugs on the floors, nothing that might lend the space dimension, texture, or warmth. Had he been living there for two weeks, it would be remarkably well put together. Given the fact that he’s lived in it for two months, the space feels barren and devoid of personality. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone fuss so much over a cheese tray,” Peter says. He’s leaning against the opposite side of the island that divides the kitchen space from the living room space. Spread out on the island is an array of appetizers - sausage wrapped in croissant, homemade hummus, bowls of cut vegetables and pretzels, and the charcuterie board that Jon is arranging and rearranging. 

It’s a decent charcuterie board, Jon thinks. Three types of cheese, two types of cured meat. Nuts, olives, dried cranberries, cherry preserves, and squares of dark chocolate are grouped together on the board. They’re arranged in spokes around a round of brie that Jon covered in croissant and baked. It’s decadent, and hopefully not excessive. 

“Did you get the prosecco?” Jon asks, not engaging with Peter’s jab. Instead, he moves the chocolates from one side of the board (next to the olives) to the other (next to the cranberries), and casts a critical eye over the colors. 

“I got champagne instead. No need to drink the cheap stuff.” Peter nods to the fridge.

“I asked you to get prosecco.” Jon says. He had only asked Peter to do one thing for this party that Peter insisted take place at his apartment. Up to this point, Jon has been doing an excellent job keeping Martin and Peter separate. Jon hasn’t spoken with Martin since their drunken kiss unless it was absolutely vital to the running of the store. And even then, he tried to handle it over email. 

“And I spent my own money getting something better,” Peter replies. He sounds faintly puzzled, probably unable to understand why Jon is upset over the fact Peter had done something that was, objectively, nice. 

The tension that has existed between the two of them since they got back together has been thick. On reflection, Jon doesn’t understand why Peter was willing to get back with someone who was only doing it for the money. Does Peter just want to make both of them as miserable as possible? Jon has been ready to explode over the slightest provocation. Their fights have been intense and bitter, Jon ready to spew vitriol at a moment's notice. 

Peter seems to relish in the constant conflict that they find themselves in. He seems to enjoy winding Jon up and watching him go, letting Jon say whatever it is he wants to say while Peter is the victim of the onslaught. And then he reminds Jon, calm and collected, that if Jon is unhappy he can always leave. According to the contract between the two of them, the fifteen thousand is immediately due for repayment. 

Jon isn’t sure if the contract is legal, but he also doesn’t know how to find out. So Jon stays with Peter, and Peter continues to put up with Jon’s explosions. And when the explosions are done, Peter points out that Peter has been so kind, and so helpful, and so calm. And isn’t Jon lucky to have someone willing to put up with Jon’s mistreatment? 

“Well, if you can just get the gin and the bourbon, I think we’ll be set up for the party. A handle of each, please,” Jon replies, swallowing his anger. He is not going to let Peter ruin this party by provoking him into another fight. Peter seems disappointed, but smiles his same placid smile at Jon and heads out the door. 

* * *

There is exactly one hour and twelve minutes until the fireworks. Martin knows this because he has been religiously checking his phone, waiting for the opportunity to make a hasty exit as soon as the fireworks have gone off. The party has been fine. Daisy has brought Basira, and they’re making small talk with Melanie. The Sashas have set up wine pong on Peter Lukas’s dining room table, and while Martin expects that sort of thing from Sasha James after having known her for a decade, he did not expect Sasha Smith to have such good aim. Tim and Jon are sitting at the island, picking somewhat drunkenly at the baked brie. Elias did not come, bowing out with excuses about a family party. 

“Would you like a drink?” an unfamiliar voice asks. Martin turns to see Peter Lukas holding two glasses. “Jon mentioned you're a gin man, so I thought a G&T would be your speed.” The glasses are beautiful and heavy things - finely etched crystal with silver gilt around the rim. They’re imposing, something about the etchwork feels threatening once Martin has studied it for a second, sharp and pointed. 

“Ah, thanks.” Martin takes the glass and takes a sip. It tastes like the better version of the gin and tonic he might drink at the bar after trivia. It’s light and floral, with none of the sharpness that well gin has. 

“Are you enjoying the party?” Peter asks, sipping what Martin suspects by color and garnish is an Old Fashioned.

“You have a lovely home,” Martin deflects. He isn’t enjoying the party. Peter has been constantly at Jon’s elbow, a possessive hand wrapped around Jon’s waist. Before Jon had a few drinks he had shied from the physical pressure. After two bourbon and sodas, Jon had relaxed enough to not jump every time Peter touched him. 

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Peter counters, the corners of his mouth quirking. Martin feels as though he has stepped into a trap, oblivious to its mechanism before it has already sprung. 

“The party is lovely as well. The food is fantastic,” Martin says, taking another sip of his drink. It’s his second in the three hours he has been here. He doesn’t trust himself so close to Jon and alcohol, not when he’s been on the verge of an angry outburst for two months. 

“I asked if you were enjoying yourself,” Peter repeats. Peter’s smile, now fully developed but half hidden by the rim of his glass, is smug. Martin wants nothing more than to wipe it off his face. 

“Have you asked Jon if he’s enjoying having your hands all over him?” Martin snaps back. 

“I assume he would say something if he didn’t.” Peter’s reply is cool. “But I also fail to see how that has anything to do with what we’re talking about. Which is, if I recall, whether or not you are enjoying yourself. Because your behavior so far tonight seems to indicate that you’re not, and that really makes me feel like I’m failing you as a host.” 

“Excuse me?” Martin splutters. Sure, he’s not very thrilled to be forced to watch Peter paw at Jon while everyone else acts like everything is fine, but he’s been a pleasant guest. In the very least, he hasn’t been harassing anyone with what is obviously unwanted physical contact. 

“You’ve been moping on the couch and checking your phone constantly. When I came to check on you, as any good host should do, you got awfully defensive,” Peter says after a sip of his drink. Martin wants to throw the gin and tonic in Peter’s face. How dare he come and confront Martin, when Martin is just trying to mind his own business. Was Peter’s ego so fragile he couldn’t stand for Martin to check his phone a few times during the party? 

“You know, I don’t think I want to talk to you about this,” Martin snips back. He’s been pleasant enough. Peter is the one making this awkward with that damnable smile. 

“As far as I can tell, you don’t want to talk to anyone. But I won’t impose myself on you. I hope the rest of your evening is more pleasant. It’s a while before the fireworks.” Peter replies, smile still skirting the corners of his mouth as he turns and walks away. Martin wants to throw his glass after his retreating back, but takes another sip instead. 

* * *

“I’m glad you came.” Jon’s words are clipped in the way that drunk people over enunciate, each sound carefully made and strung together into a sentence. Martin shifts slightly. He still isn’t sure why Jon insisted on walking him down to the lobby while everyone else sipped champagne upstairs. Sasha had seemed to appreciate the vintage when Peter brought out the bottles to pour the toast, and Martin could tell by the dryness and the fineness of the bubbles that it was expensive. 

“I enjoyed seeing you. I missed you coming into The Muse.” Martin says, biting his lip at how stupid it sounds when said out loud. He doesn’t want to scare Jon off, not when the other man has just spoken to him for the first time in months. 

“I should go in more. I’ve just been busy,” Jon agrees. He opens his mouth to say something more, but the elevator dings and the doors whisper open. Whatever words were about to be passed between them are lost as they step into the lobby of the building. It’s late, the doorman long since gone home, and they are alone for the first time since Sasha’s recital. 

“I hope you do. I really have been missing you,” Martin says. He’s surprised when Jon’s arms wrap around him, pulling him into a hug. It seems more intimate than their drunken kiss had been. The press of their bodies together, the feeling of Jon’s face against his shoulder. 

They linger for a long moment. Long enough for Martin to figure out that he’s supposed to put his hands on Jon’s back and return the hug. Long enough for Martin to realize this is the first time anyone has hugged him since Sasha did on the way to his mother’s nursing home. Long enough for Martin to bury his nose in Jon’s hair and inhale the scent of paper and ink that he has come to associate with Jon and Parnassus. 

When Jon pulls away, his cheeks are red and embarrassed. He offers Martin a stiff smile, and fear pulses through Martin’s chest.  _ Don’t let this be the last time I get to hold Jon like that.  _ He thinks, swallowing the panic and offering Jon a shaky smile in return. 

“I should come in more,” Jon repeats. “But, have a nice night, Martin. Happy New Year.” 

“Yeah. Happy New Year,” Martin whispers back. Jon steps back into the elevator and gives Martin a small wave as the doors close. Then, Martin is left alone in the lobby of a very nice apartment building, a seed of hope in his chest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unlucky Chapter 13 only took two months to write! Hopefully the pace will pick up again.

“That weird guy is outside again.” Daisy turns to Melanie, her lips pursed. “He gives me a bad feeling.” The after holiday lull makes the stranger more obvious. He’s an older gentleman, always in the same black puffer and grey beanie. He stops for tea at the Muse, holding the warm cup in gloveless hands. Sometimes he looks around the store, slowly parsing through the books on the upper floor. Sometimes he just sits on the bench across the street, pretending to read the newspaper. 

“I know you’re an ex cop. Are you sure you’re not just being racist? I’m sure he has a reason to hang around that isn’t nefarious.” Melanie counters. The annoyance that leaps to Daisy’s throat is sharp, and she swallows it down like ground glass. Yes, as a police officer she was taught to profile people. That doesn’t mean she thinks that all elderly black men are a threat. 

“I can’t figure out why he's always watching the store.” It’s weird for him to sit across the street and watch us every day.” Daisy says. She’s being reasonable, methodical in her thinking. This man has shown interest in the valuable books that Jon keeps upstairs. He watches the way people come and go from the store. He knows when the sales associates go on break, when the shift change is, and when there is only one person in the store. 

“He’s just some guy. He probably lives in the area and likes sitting on that bench.” Melanie replies, crossing her arms. She’s being stubborn; unreceptive to anything that Daisy might say, and impossible to reason with. Daisy can read it in the tension in her shoulders and the tilt of her chin. The air between the two of them crackles with tension. 

“Yeah. He lives to sit outside on a bench in the rain, snow, and thirty degree weather.” Daisy says. January has been mild and wet, the temperature in the high thirties and the wind chill almost nonexistent. The constant drizzle has been keeping most people indoors, and it makes their mysterious watcher all the more obvious. 

“Maybe he’s homeless.” Melanie doubles down. Daisy just shrugs. Fighting with Melanie would be easy. The other woman has been itching for a fight since Daisy was hired, quick to profess a dislike for caps and the institution they represent. Daisy has been too tired - physically and emotionally - to rise to the bait. The constant need to prove herself right was what crippled her hand. 

The man isn’t homeless. Not with his expensive jacket and boots, and shiny debit card he runs easily at The Muse. He could live in the area, but it’s unlikely that he happens to enjoy sitting in the winter rain and watching a slow bookstore. He’s casing Parnassus, probably to rob it. Daisy isn’t familiar with the black market that exists for rare books, but she’s peeked at a few of the price tags on the upper floor. Books are small and easily portable (albeit heavy). A well selected five books would turn a pretty profit, even at a fraction of their listed price. 

The man could also be an arsonist, looking for the best way to set the fire so that the blaze burns hot and bright. Even with the drizzle that has persisted through the new year, a fire set on so much dry paper would be impossible to tame by the time it spread to the outer reaches of the building. 

“Maybe.” Daisy deflects, turning back to the window to stare at the man. She swears that their eyes meet across the street, but a bus passes between them and pulls to a stop at a red light. When it moves again the man is gone. Daisy is left staring at her own reflection. She looks tired, haggard even. There’s a pinched look to her face and something hungry in her eyes. Daisy wants the man to come back; wants to find out who he is and what he’s doing. 

She looks back into the store, nearly deserted except for a young man hanging out on the couch in the back, sipping from a pink tea cup and scrolling through his phone. It’s quiet here, exactly the type of work that her therapist said would be good for her during the physical therapy her hand needed to heal. 

It feels stagnant. The work at the sore accomplishes nothing when compared to her work on the force. Yes, Jon is currently stressing over the best arrangement to get potential textbooks together. Ys, she gets paid to ring people up and talk about books she’s never read. But Jon is always busy, Melanie is openly hostile, her shifts never overlap with Elias, and she is accomplishing nothing of any importance. 

“Do you want to grab a drink after work, or something?” Daisy turns to Melanie, extending an olive branch. Melanie doesn’t like cops, but that doesn’t mean she can’t like Daisy. Becoming friends with Melanie is the quickest way to make her life here just a little more bearable. 

“Sure.” Melanie responds with a shrug. Daisy is surprised, but decides it’s best to avoid questioning Melanie’s decision. “There’s a place down the street that does happy hour all day on Sunday. You want to go there?” 

“That sounds nice, actually.” Daisy is surprised to find that it dies. “I’ll let Basira know that I’ll be out late.” 

* * *

It’s slow at The Muse, and Martin is looking forward to closing the doors and heading to trivia. Michael has been disappointed that Jon has not continued to grace them with his extensive knowledge, but with Gerry back from his tour they’re regularly placing in the top five again. It’s not as exciting as their brief brush with first place, but it isn’t as poorly as they were doing after Jon’s appearance. 

Martin is alone in the shop, the after holiday lull meaning that it has been slow enough for a single employee to handle the lazy, weekday closing shifts. There’s only one customer in the cafe, a woman curled in one of the overstuffed leather armchairs with a laptop perched on her lap. Martin is not expecting Sasha to breeze in, dressed in leggings and a sports bra beneath a bright red puffer. Her hair is pulled into a sweaty ponytail. 

“Hey, Martin.” Sasha greets him, a sheepish look on her face. It’s not an expression Martin has seen often in the decade he’s known her. 

“Audition in the area, or just a class?” Martin asks, already pulling the cold brew out from the low boy. Sasha, come rain or shine or snow, always drinks iced coffee. It’s a quirk that Martin has always appreciated.

“Call back, actually. Got the leading part.” Sasha gives Martin a tight smile. She must be trying to play it cool, because none of the excitement that Martin is used to seeing is present as she plays with the drawstrings of her puffer. Martin slips the cold brew across the counter. 

“That’s great! Why so worried? If you think there’s an hours issue, we can work something out between Parnassus and The Muse so you can have better shift flexibility without losing hours.” Martin leans forward, resting his arms on the counter. It’s hard to see in the half light of the store, but he knows Sasha well enough to read the subtle way she rocks backwards, away from him and the coffee. She’s nervous. 

“No, it’s more about trivia. I’m going to start having rehearsal on Thursday starting at six.” Her shoulders slump, the tension leaving her body now that she’s spoken her bad news. Martin nods, biting back his bitter disappointment. 

“I’m glad to hear you landed this part. You’ve been working hard for a long time.” Martin says. He does not say that Sasha has very few years of dancing left in her, old as she is. He does not say that this gig will end and she’ll regret thinking that it was more important than her friends. He doesn’t ask her if this producer is going to expect her to put out as well (since the last time that happened was years ago, and she’s still ashamed that the only reason he had cast her was he thought she was loose, and he had been so quick to dismiss her when he found out she wasn’t). 

Instead he smiles and picks up the cup, a peace offering. It’s only one season without Sasha at trivia, and then things will return to their equilibrium. In the window, the woman with long brown hair adjusts her glasses, taking off her on ear headphones to rub the tip of her ear. 

“I’m glad you get it.” Sasha smiles and the tension between the two of them breaks. “But there’s still one more trivia night. Catch you there?” 

“Save my seat.” Martin smiles back, and swallows down the cutting retort that he wants to give. Sasha is his friend. She’s always been there for him, and she’s not disappearing now. 

* * *

“Good for Sasha, yeah?” Michael asks. They’re perched, once again, at the bar after trivia. It’s become a routine for them. The others trickle out after the game ends, and they move to the center of the bar to make small talk over one last drink or two.

“She’s been working hard.” Martin agrees, playing with his coup. He wonders, briefly, what the difference between a gimlet and a margarita is, besides the base liquor and the bad memories that accompany tequila. He avoids thinking about Sasha, and how her new role tastes like betrayal. 

“What about Jon? Is he going to come back and win for us again?” Michael asks, the query gentle. Martin has been avoiding talking about Jon recently, not wanting to admit that his crush only seems to be requited when there is alcohol in the mix. 

“I think Thursday is the night he spends at Peter’s place,” Martin replies, taking a hasty sip of his drink. Michael’s face arranges itself into one of polite confusion. Martin can only imagine the questions going through Michael’s head.  _ Who is Peter? Why hasn’t Martin mentioned Jon since November? Why does Peter mean Jon can’t play trivia any more? _

His ex ex. They got back together just before Halloween.” Martin explains, giving a weak laugh at how delightfully funny he finds himself to be. The double negative has a ring to it that captures the turbulent relationship that Martin is sure must exist between Jon and Peter. 

Martin doesn’t have any reason to think that their relationship is difficult. Sasha and Tim have said that Peter is the perfect gentleman when they’ve seen him interacting with Jon. Jon himself has never said anything to Martin to make Martin think they’re having problems. With the exception of the New Years Eve party, Jon hasn’t said anything to Martin at all. But Martin remembers how Jon talked about Peter before they got back together, and he suspects that they didn’t solve their problems in the small span of time between that conversation and Peter’s appearance in Jon’s life.

“Oh, that’s rough. Sorry to hear that.” Michael gives Martin a pity filled smile. 

“No, it’s fine. They’re adults and they can make their own decisions. But let's talk about literally anything else,” Martin says, giving a weak laugh. 

“Look, man. You miss every shot you don’t take.” Michael gives Martin a knowing look, as though he has spouted the secrets of the universe and not a phrase that belongs on a motivational poster in a therapist’s office. 

“Yeah. Like Manchester. Having a rough season, huh?” Martin fishes the lime out of his drink and places it on the napkin next to him, for no other reason than to have something to do with his hands. 

“The worst,” Michael agrees sagely, ready to abandon talk of Martin’s personal life in favor of the ragging on Solksjӕr.

* * *

Jon has the same routine every time he opens the store. He unlocks the gate first, then counts the till. If the money is even and there are no books that need to be shelved, he dusts or sweeps the store and stocks the paper bags that are kept next to the register. If there is time after that (and there never is, because Jon waits until the last possible moment to come downstairs), he might go over expenses or look into networking to move some of the more expensive books that are on the shelves. 

He rarely opens on Friday, but Melanie called out due to a fever and he couldn’t get a hold of Daisy on such a short notice. He snuck out of Peter’s apartment and made his way to Parnassus in the early hours of the morning. His sleep at Peter’s apartment has been light and restless, and the phone call jarring him from his slumber was welcome. Peter sleeps through anything, and he didn’t so much as twitch when Jon extracted himself and picked up his shoes, choosing to put them on in the elevator. 

He has no reason to feel like a teenager who has snuck out of the house. He’s only gone to the store he owns to take care of making sure that it will run like it needs to. His grandmother, god rest her soul, had inspired enough fear in his teenaged self that he never broke rules that might result in her shaking her head and musing aloud why god had seen it fit to take her son and leave a woman past her prime with a child to raise. 

“Hey, I brought you a coffee.” Martin is poking his head through the gate, having nudged it open just enough to fit the bulk of his shoulders through. He’s holding a mug in one hand, his face twisted into a look of apprehension. 

“Good morning, Martin.” Jon looks up, unsurprised by the interruption. The other reason he doesn’t open on Friday - it’s one of the days that Martin opens The Muse. It’s not that Jon is avoiding Martin; Jon is just doing his very best to make sure that they’re never in the same room together. He obviously can’t be trusted around Martin, as the last moment they were alone Jon started kissing him like a horny teenager. 

Jon expected more guilt the next morning, but like the hangover he was expecting, it was absent. Instead there was the low burning desire for more. Jon is locked into his relationship with Peter until the money to pay back the loan materializes. He can’t afford to be pining after Martin. 

“I brought you a coffee,” Martin repeats, as though the repetition of the phrase makes the action more valid. 

“Thanks.” Jon takes the offered mug. It’s different from any of the little tea cups that he’s seen, no floral print or gilt edges. It seems plain and utilitarian, stark white like the mugs Jon has upstairs. Jon takes a sip, curious as to why Martin has put an iced drink in a mug that Jon has never seen. From the new vantage point, Jon notices a black smudge beneath his fingers. Curious, he twists the mug around to see what the design is. 

It’s a pair of glasses, similar to Jon’s own, above the words  _ Talk Nerdy to Me _ . He inspects it for a moment, aware of the nervous shift in Martin’s energy; in the way that Martin is leaning slightly forward with his face drawn in apprehension. 

“Sasha likes to buy them for people, you know? She’s bought one for everyone at The Muse, and Elias has one. You might have seen it? It’s green with plants all over it.” Martin’s voice has picked up again, the words running together at their edges. He does this when he’s nervous, but Jon doesn’t know why Martin would be nervous about a mug. Maybe Martin is as nervous about occupying the same space as Jon as Jon is about occupying the same space as Martin. 

“Why plants?” Jon asks as a way of keeping the conversation afloat and cutting across the frantic tumble of Martin’s words. 

“Well, because of all the - you know.” Martin mimes smoking, as though speaking aloud the fact that Elias smokes weed will get him in trouble with his employer. 

“I think he’s quit that as of late,” Jon replies, taking another drink. The coffee is nice, and the caffeine kick will help counter the fact that he and Peter were up until two bickering over what color to paint the bathroom. 

“Tim mentioned as much. Something about being more involved with the family business?” Martin seems more at ease gossiping about Elias than he did talking about Jon’s new mug. The weight of it is heavy in Jon’s hands, the ceramic warm. He has noticed that the employees at The Muse tended to drink from mugs, but had never found it strange. 

It’s odd to feel included. He’s being wrapped up in the little family that exists between the two stores, despite the fact he’s the thing that tore their status quo apart at the seams. He still hasn’t found a way to talk to Elias about what happened, and the other man seems content to pretend like the night in the sub-basement had never occurred. Jon is frozen by inaction and indecisiveness, the same problems he has faced for as long as he can remember.

“The lobbying. Lawyering?” Jon replies. Elias had been vague about what his family did, only talking about them when he’s griping about his father threatening to cut his stipend off. Jon isn’t sure what that had meant, but the implication was that Mr. Bouchard pays rent, utilities, and other necessities, while Elias’s job at the bookstore was covering his lifestyle. 

“Something of that sort.” Martin agrees, shifting from foot to foot. He checks his phone, a nervous tick, and a look of disappointment flickers across his face. “I’ve got to go back over. But don’t be a stranger, yeah?” 

“It was good talking to you, Martin. Thanks for the coffee,” Jon says. He smiles, knowing the expression looks stiff and forced, and hopes that Martin doesn’t think it means Jon doesn’t want to do this again. 

* * *

“Elias! I haven’t seen you in months. You know, I was worried that you weren’t working here anymore, but that rude woman, the one with the red hair, she told me that you were switching shifts around while working on a personal project. Have you had a chance to work on your novel?” The woman does not pause to breathe until her question is asked. Elias wracks his memory quickly, trying to tie this woman to a name or experience. 

“Ah - no. Getting involved with the family business.” Elias replies, struggling to buy time as he shifts slowly through the drug hazed memories that the previous occupant of this body has in the store. This woman does not stick out from the steady stream of customers and faces that Elias made small talk with. 

“Oh, how lovely. Is that why you’re dressed up? Got something to do later on?” She almost coos as she speaks, matronly and assured. Elias struggles not to scowl. He’s dressed almost identically to how this body has always dressed, he just made sure there were no stains, tears, or wrinkles before putting his clothes on in the morning. 

“Yes, it is,” Elias lies charmingly. 

“Well, while I have you here, do you have any recommendations? Henry has reliably informed me that I’m not as good as picking out books for him as you are,” The woman says, brushing a streak of gray back from her temple. She looks to the shelf that is half full of science fiction, and the clues click into place. Meredith comes in to shop for her son Henry so he’ll stop playing video games. Elias gives Sci Fi recommendations, and sometimes she brings him cookies. How quaint. And an utter waste of his time. 

“None today, I’m afraid. I haven’t been around much and haven’t really gone through that section yet,” Elias lies again, smile still loose and friendly. This woman is harmless, but at the moment he doesn’t have time to go through Elias’s vast collection of opinions on bad fiction. 

“That’s a shame. Will you be back in soon? I was thinking about bringing Henry in now that school is back in.” Meredith seems genuinely crestfallen by his lack of suggestions. 

“I might be. It’s all a bit up in the air with the family business,” Elias says with a nonchalant shrug. He has no desire to meet this woman’s whelp. If it weren’t for the fact that the senior Bouchard is wary of his sudden interest in lobbying, he would quit this retail position and focus his efforts on maneuvering the various parts around the city he needs nudged into place. 

“Oh, that’s nice. You never mentioned that your family owned a business. Are they in the book selling business too? Are you here scoping out the competition?” She leans forward with a conspiratorial wink, and Elias recoils internally at her familiarity. 

“No.” The reply is short, both disdain and amusement playing in Elias’s voice. Who is this woman who thinks that she can be so chummy with him? It’s funny to see her try so desperately to be friendly as he greywalls her out. 

“Well, it was nice to see you. I’ll be in soon,” Meredith says, floundering in the face of this sudden change. Elias smiles back, bland and uninviting. Her smile retreats, defeated as she ducks her head and scuttles out the door. 

Elias takes a moment to survey the store, unsurprised to see the shock of Melanie’s red hair heading towards him. She has taken his sudden shift in behavior the hardest. It’s perhaps because she knows that something is not as it should be. She’s gone looking for the study again, frustrated to find nothing in the sub basement but a drab concrete room shrouded in condensation and shadow. 

“Never seen her leave without chatting you up for a while,” Melanie says, accusation thick in her voice. Her eyes are narrowed slits, her arms crossed. Elias turns the same bland and vapid smile he had just fixed the woman with to Melanie. 

“Is that so? Strange,” Elias responds. Melanie’s face twitches, frustration thick in the furrow of her brow. She makes it so easy to wind her up, and it’s fun to play little games with the staff. Melanie is always angry, and sows discontent whenever she’s in. Tim is confused and hurt by Elias’s sudden distance. Sasha is rarely in, and when she is she’s distracted and trying to channel positive vibes, which places her further at odds with the rest of the staff. Martin is drowning in his isolation, losing his best friend, his mother, and his romantic interest in the space of a few months. 

Daisy Tonner is the only unknown element. They rarely work together, and she’s a new addition to the miserable family that Elias is sowing. He’s not sure how to dampen her spirit, or how to keep her influence from lightening the moods of the others. She’s in a happy relationship, but with a partner who works long and hard hours. She’s being kept from the job she loves due to an injury, but seems to find enough fulfillment around the bookstore. She’s angry and discontent, but actively trying to be content. 

“Yeah, normally the two of you can talk for an hour when it’s slow.” Melanie’s reply is snappish as she looks around the nearly empty store. 

“She must have been busy today,” Elias replies, giving a halfhearted shrug. He’s not trying to convince Melanie that he’s telling the truth. All he needs to do is convince her that he’s trying to lie. 

“Must have been,” Melanie’s reply is clipped. If her eyes were any more narrow, they would be closed. She sees right through his ruse, not fooled for a second by his half hearted lie. Elias smiles, the picture of innocence. 

“But I think we have jobs to do, hm? Shelf stocking?” Elias says, stepping away from Melanie to stand in the center of the walkway. The sun streaks through the window, and he takes a moment to marvel at his own shadow, and the corporality that accompanies it. 


End file.
